Freytag's Technique of the Drama : an Exposition of Dramatic Composition

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TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA

AN EXPOSITION OF DRAMATIC COMPOSITION AND ART

Dr. GUSTAV FREYTAG

AN AUTHORIZED TRANSLATION FROM THE SIXTH GERMAN EDITION

ELIAS J. MacEWAN, M.A.

TITIRD EDITION.

r/'l CHICAGO SCOTT, FORESMAN AND COMPANY 1900 Pli

By S. C. GRIGGS & COMPANY

PRESS OF THE HENRY O. SHEPARD CO CHICAGO CONTENTS.

Biographical Note. - - ^ - -vii-ix

Introduction. — Technique of the drama not absolute. Cer- tain craftsman's skill of earlier times. Condition of present time. Aristotle's Poetics. Lessing. The great dramatic works as models. . - . . - i-g

CHAPTER I. — DRAMATIC ACTION.

1. The Idea. — How the drama originates in the mind of the poet. Development of the idea. Material and its transformation. The historian and the poet. The range of material. Transformation of the real, according to Aris- totle. ---..-- g-i8

2. What is Dramatic? — Explanation. Effg,Cts« Characters. The action. The dramatic life of the characters. Entrance of the dramatic into the life of men. Rareness of dramatic power. ------ig-27

3. Unity. — The Law. Among the Greeks. How it is produced. How the unity of historical material is not secured. False unity. Where dramatic material is to be found. The character in the modern drama. Counter-play and its danger. Episodes. ----- 27-49

4. Probability. — What is probable. Social effects of the drama. The strange. The marvellous. Mephistopheles. The irrational. Shakespeare and Schiller. - 49-61

5. Importance and Magnitude. — Weakness of characters. Distinguished heroes. Private persons. Degrading the art. -_-...- 61-66 iv CONTENTS.

6. Movement and Ascent. — Public actions. Inward struggles. Poet dramas. Nothing important to be omitted. Prince of HoDiburg. Antony and Cleopatra. Messenger scenes. Concealment and effect through reflex action. Efifects by means of the action itself. Necessity of ascent. Contrasts. Parallel scenes. - - - - 66-84

7. What is Tragic? — How far the poet may not concern

himself about it. The purging. Effects of ancient tragedy. Contrast with German tragedy. The tragic force (moment). The revolution and recognition. - - - 84-103

CHAPTER H. — THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA.

1. Play and Counter-Play. — Two halves. Rise and fall. Two kinds of structure. Drama in which the chief hero leads. Drama of counter-play. Examples. Spectacle-

- _ - - play and tragedy. . I 04-1 14

2. Five Parts and Three Crises. — The introduction. The exciting force (moment). The ascent. The tragic force or incident. Falling action. The force or motive of last suspense. The catastrophe. Necessary qualifications of the poet. .-.-.- 1 14-140

3. Construction of the Drama in Sophocles.— Origin of tragedy. Pathos scenes. Messenger scenes. Dialogues. Representation. The three actors. Scope of their work compared with modern actors. Same actor used to strengthen effects. Cast of parts. Ideas of preserved tragedies. Construction of the action. The characters. Ajax as an example. Peculiarity of Sophocles. His relation to the myth. The parts of the tragedy. Antigone. King (EdipMS. CEdipus at C0I0710S. The Trachinian

Women. Ajax. Philoctetes. - - - 1 40-1 81

4. Germanic Drama.—Stage of Shakespeare. Its influence on the structure of the pieces. Shakespeare's peculiarities.

Its falling action and its weaknesses. Construction of - - - Hamlet. - - . - 181-192 CONTENTS. V

The Five Acts. — Influence of the curtain on the modern stage. Development of the act. The five parts. Their technical peculiarities. First act. Second. Third. Fourth. Fifth. Examples. Construction of the double drama, Wallenstein. .... - 192-209

CHAPTER III. — CONSTRUCTION OF SCENES.

Members. — Entrances. Scenes. Units of the poet. Their combination into scenes. Structure of the scene. Inter- vals. Change of scenery. Chief scenes and subordinate scenes. .-.--. 210-216 The Scenes According to the Number of Persons.— Conduct of action through the scenes. Monologues. Mes- senger scenes. Dialogue scenes. Different structure. Love scenes. Three persons. Ensemble scenes. Their laws. The galley scene in Antony and Cleopatra. Banquet scene in Piccolomini. Riitli scene. Parliament in Demet- rius. Mass scenes. Distributed voices. Battles. 216-245

CHAPTER IV. — THE CHARACTERS.

Peoples and Poets. — Assumptions of dramatic characterization, creation, and after-creation. Variety of peoples and characters. Germans and Latins. Difference according to poets. Shakespeare's characters. Lessing, Goethe,

Schiller. ------246-266

Characters in the Material and in the Play.— The character dependent on the action. Example of Wallen- stein. Characters with portraiture. Historical characters. Poets and history. Opposition between characters and action. The epic hero intrinsically undramatic. Euripides. The Germans and their legends. Older German history. Nature of historical heroes. Inner poverty. Mingling of opposites. Lack of unity. Influence of Christendom. Henry IV. Attitude of the poet toward the appearances of

reality. Opposition between poet and actor. - 266-303

Minor Rules. — The characters must have dramatic unity. The drama must have but one chief hero. Double heroes. vi CONTENTS.

Lovers. The action must be based on characteristics of the persons. Easily understood. Mingling of good and evil. Humor. Accident. The characters in the different acts. Demands of the actor. The conception of the stage arrangement must be vivid in the poet's mind. The

province of the spectacle play. What is it to write effectively? ----- 303-322

CHAPTER v. — VERSE AND COLOR.

I. Prose and Verse. — Iambic pentameter. Tetrameter. Trimeter. Alexandrine. Verse of the Nibelungen Lied.

Dramatic element of verse. Color. - - 323-340

CHAPTER VL — THE POET AND HIS WORK.

I. Poet of Modern Times. — Material. Work. Fitting for the stage. Cutting out. Length of the piece. Acquain- tance with the stage. _ . - - 341-366 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE.

Gustav Freytag, scholar, poet, novelist, critic, playwright, editor, soldier, publicist, was born in Kreuzburg,

Silesia, in 1816. Still living in quiet retirement in Wies- baden, he is one of the best known of modern German writers. His preliminary education was acquired at the Gymnasium of Oels, which he entered in 1829, at the age of thirteen. In 1835, he began the study of German philology under Hoffmann, at the University of Bres- lau. Later he continued this line of study with Lach- mann, at the University of Berlin, where, in 1838-9, he was given the degree of Doctor of Philosophy, on the presentation of a thesis on De initiis scenicce poeseos apud Germanos. Between this time and 1846, he was connected with the University of Breslau, as an instructor in the German language and literature. Having gained some notice, as the author of a comedy. The Bridal Jow-ney (1844), and a volume of short popular poems. In Breslau (1845), ^^ ^^ow (1847), i^ connection with Julian Schmidt, undertook the management of the political and literary newspaper. Die Grenzboten^ in Leipzig. He continued his literary work, and entered in earnest upon what has proved the long and honorable career of a man of letters. In 1847^ Valentine appeared, followed the next year by Count Waldemir, both society plays, evincing the author's dramatic power, and with his inclination toward viii BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE. the spirit, the dialectics, and the sketchy manner of the younger writers, showing his delicate feeling for clearness and purity of style, his skill in the conduct of the action, in dialogue, and his genial fresh humor. His next play. The Scholar, is rather a psychological study in a single act, than a drama. In 1854, his greatest piece,

The Journalists, was first acted; and it is still one of the most popular modern society dramas represented on the German stage. Perfectly natural and healthful in tone, it abounds in striking situations, depicts with fidelity many important types of German character, amusingly exhibits social rivalries and political machinations, and affords abundant opportunity for the author's effective satire. Another play. The Fabii, appeared in 1859. Freytag's first great novel. Soil mid Haben (1858), translated into English under the title of Debit and

Credit (1859), ^^s become a classic. In this, his view of human life is broader and his insight into the springs of human action deeper than in his plays. Its purpose is to show the value and dignity of a life of labor. It attempts to show that the active, vigorous life of a great

German merchant is purer, nobler, more beneficent than the life of a haughty aristocrat, relying only on the traditional merits of his family; and, in this attempt, the author weaves a web of glory about the life of the ordinary citizen. A second novel. The Lost Manuscript (1864), in like manner shows the superiority of the scholar over the nobleman. The Technique of the Drama was written in 1863, and dedicated to the author's friend — Wolf, Count of Bau- dissin. The book has passed through six editions, and attained the rank of a first-class authority on the matters of which it treats, though now for the first time translated into English. BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE. ix

In 1862, Freytag began his famous series of connected historic tales, in New Pictures from the Life of the Ger- man People, continued the next year in Pictures from the

German Past, and still further in 1876 and later, in The Ancestors, including Ingo and Ingraban; The Nest of the Hedge-sparrows ; The Brothers of the German House; Marcus King; The Brothers and Sisters; From a Little

City, etc. These are all descriptions of German life, based on accurate research, and including periods from the fourth to the nineteenth century. Devoted to the glory of the German people, this, the author's most extensive work, makes an entertaining exposition of some of the noblest traits of German character. In 1870, he published a striking biography of his intimate friend, entitled Karl Mathy ; Story of His Life. Freytag continued to edit Die Grenzboten for twenty- three years, when he went over to a new journal called Lm Neuen Reich. His political writings having introduced him to public life, he became in 1867, a representative of the Liberal party in the North-German Parliament. On the breaking out of the Franco- Prussian war in 1870, he entered the imperial army as an officer on the staff of the Crown Prince, remaining in military service till after the Battle of Sedan. He gave up public life in 1879.

INTRODUCTION.

That the technique of the drama is nothing absolute and unchangeable scarcely need be stated. Since Aristotle established a few of the highest laws of dramatic effect, the culture of the human race has grown more than two thousand years older. Not only have the artistic forms, the stage and method of representation undergone a great change, but what is more important, the spiritual and moral nature of men, the relation of the individual to the race and to the highest forces of earthly life, the idea of freedom, the conception of the being of Divinity, have experienced great revolutions. A wide field of dramatic

material has been lost ; a new and greater range has been won. With the moral and political principles which control our life, our notion of the beautiful and the artistically effective has

developed. Between the highest art effects of

the Greek festivals, the autos sacramentales, and

the drama of the time of Goethe and Iffland,the

difference is not less great than between the 2 INTRODUCTION.

Hellenic choral theater, the structure for the mystery play, and the complete inclosed room of the modern stage. It may be considered certain that some of the fundamental laws of dramatic

production will remain in force for all time ; in general, however, not only the vital requisites of the drama have been found in continuous development, but also the artistic means of producing its effects. Let no one think that the technique of poetry has been advanced through the creations

of the greatest poets only ; we may say without self-exaltation that we at present have clearer ideas upon the highest art effects in the drama and upon the use of technical equipment, than had

Lessing, Schiller and Goethe.

'The poet of the present is inclined to look with amazement upon a method of work in which the structure of scenes, the treatment of characters, and the sequence of effects were governed by a transmitted code of fixed technical rules.

Such a limitation easily seems to us the death of free artistic creation. Never was a greater error. Even an elaborate, system of specific rules, a certain limitation founded in popular custom, as to choice of material and structure of the piece, have been at different periods the best aid to creative power. Indeed, they are, it seems, nee- INTRODUCTION. 3 essary prerequisites of that rich harvest of many past periods, which has seemed to us so enigmatical and incomprehensible. We recognize still that Greek tragedy possessed such a technique, and that the greatest poets worked according to craftsman's rules which were in part common, and in part might be the property of distinct families and guilds. Many of these were well known to

Attic criticism, which judged the worth of a piece according to them — whether the revolution scene were in the right place and the pathos scene aroused the desired degree of sympathy. That the Spanish cloak-and-dagger drama artistically wove the threads of its intrigue likewise according to fixed rules, no poetics of a Castilian informs

us ; but we are able to recognize very well many of these rules in the uniform construction of the

plays, and in the ever recurring characters ; and it would not be very difficult to formulate a code of peculiar rules from the plays themselves. These rules, of course, even to contemporaries, to whom

they were useful, were not invariable ; through the genius and shrewd invention of individuals, these gradually learned how to improve and remodel, until the rules became lifeless; and after a period of spiritless application, together with the creative power of the poets, they were lost. 4 INTRODUCTION.

It is true, an elaborate technique which determines not only the form, but also many aesthetic effects, marks out for the dramatic poetry of a period a limit and boundary within which the greatest success is attained, and to transgress which is not allowed even to the greatest genius. In later times such a limitation is considered a hindrance to a versatile development. But even we Germans might be well content with the unap- preciative judgment of posterity if we only possessed now the aid of a generally useful technique. We suffer from the opposite of narrow limitations, the lack of proper restraint, lack of form, a popular style, a definite range of dramatic

material, firmness of grasp ; our work has become in all directions casual and uncertain. Even to-day, eighty years after Schiller, the young poet finds it difficult to move upon the stage with confidence and ease.

If, however, we must deny ourselves the advantage of composing according to the craftsman's traditions which were peculiar to the dramatic art as well as to the plastic arts of former centuries, yet we should not scorn to seek, and intelligently to use, the technical rules of ancient and modern times, which facilitate artistic effects on our stage.

To be sure, these rules are not to be prescribed INTRODUCTION. 5 at the dictation of a single person, not established through the influence of one great thinker or poet ; but drawn from the noblest effects of the stage, they must include what is essential — they must serve criticism and creative power not as dictator, but as honest helper; and under them a transformation and improvement according to the needs of the time is not to be excluded.

It is remarkable that the technical rules of a former time, in accordance with which the playwright must construct the artistic framework of his piece, have been so seldom transmitted in writing to later generations. Two thousand two hundred years have passed since Aristotle formulated a part of these laws for the Hellenes. Unfortunately his Poetics has come down to us incomplete. Only an outline has been received, which unskilled hands have made — a corrupt text with gaps, apparently disconnected chapters, hastily thrown together. In spite of this condition, what we have received is of highest value to us. To this our science of the past is indebted for a glance into the remains of the Hellenes' theater world.

In our text-books on aesthetics, this still affords the foundation for the theory of our dramatic art, and to the growing poet, some chapters of the little work are instructive; for besides a theory 6 INTRODUCTION. of dramatic effects, as the greatest thinker of antiquity explained them to his contemporaries, and besides many principles of a popular system of criticism, as the cultured Athenian brought it into use in considering a new production, the work contains many fine appliances from the workshops of antiquity, which we can use to great advantage in our labors. In the following pages, so far as the practical purpose of the book will allow, these will be the subject of our discussion.

It is a hundred and twenty years since Lessing undertook to decipher for the Germans this ste- nography of the ancients. His Hamburgische

Dramaturgie was the avenue to a popular comprehension of the dramatically beautiful. The victorious battle which he waged in this book, against the tyranny of French taste, will secure to him forever the respect and affection of the

German people. For our time, the polemic past is of most importance. Where Lessing elucidates

Aristotle, his understanding of the Greek does not seem entirely sufficient for our present time, which has at hand a more abundant means of explanation; where he exposes the laws of dramatic creation, his judgment is restricted by the narrow conception of the beautiful and effective, which he himself accepted. INTRODUCTION. 7

Indeed, the best source of technical rules is the plays of great poets, which still to-day, exercise their charm alike on reader and spectator, especially the Greek tragedies. Whoever accustoms himself to look aside from the peculiarities of the old models, will notice with real joy that the skilful tragic poet of the Athenians, Sophocles, used the fundamental laws of dramatic construction, with enviable certainty and shrewdness. For development, climax, and return of the action, he presents us a model seldom reached.

About two thousand years after CEdipus at

Colonos, Shakespeare, the second mighty genius which gave immortal expression to dramatic art, wrote the tragedy, Romeo and Jidiet. He created the drama of the Germanic races. His treatment of the tragic, his regulation of the action, his manner of developing character, and his representation of soul experiences, have established for the introduction of the drama, and for the first half to the climax, many technical laws which still guide us.

The Germans came in a roundabout way to a recognition of the greatness and significance of his service. The great German poets, easily the

'- next modeic after ^^^ ' ' —- <-^ f^.sbion. lived 8 INTRODUCTION.

with the inheritance of the old past. There waj

lacking, therefore, to the technique which they

inherited, something of certainty and consistency

in effects ; and directly because the beautiful which they discovered has been infused into our blood, we are bound, in our work, to reject many things which with them rested upon an incomplete or insecure foundation.

The examples brought forward in the following

discussion are taken from Sophocles, Shakespeare,

Lessing, Goethe, and Schiller, for it has seemed

desirable to limit examples to universally known works. CHAPTER I. THE DRAMATIC ACTION.

THE IDEA.

In the soul of the poet, the drama gradually takes shape out of the crude material furnished by the account of some striking event. First appear single movements ; internal conflicts and personal resolution, a deed fraught with consequence, the collision of two characters, the opposition of a hero to his surroundings, rise so prominently above their connection with other incidents, that they become the occasion for the transformation of other material. This transformation goes on to such an extent that the main element, vividly perceived, and com-

prehended in its entrancing, soul-stirring or terrifying significance, is separated from all that casually

accompanies it, and with single supplementary,

invented elements, is brought into a unifying relation of cause and effect. The new unit which thus

arises is the Idea of the Drama. This is the center toward which further independent inventions are diiected, like rays. ThisTd^a works with a power siii.iiar to the secret power of crystallization. Tl^A. ugh this are unity of action, significance of

Q 10 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

characters, and at last, the whole structure of the drama produced. How ordinary material becomes a poetic idea through inspiration, the following example will show. A young poet of the last century reads the following notice in a newspaper: "Stuttgart, Jan. II. — In the dwelling of the musician, Kritz, were found, yesterday, his oldest daughter, Louise, and Duke Blasius von Boiler, major of dragoons, lying dead upon the floor. The accepted facts in the case, and the medical examination indicated that both had come to their deaths by drinking poison.

There is a rumor of an attachment between the pair, which the major's father, the well-known President von Boiler, had sought to break off. The sad fate of the young woman, universally esteemed on account of her modest demeanor, awakens the sympathy of all people of sensibility." From the material thus afforded, the fancy of the poet, aroused by sympathy, fashions the character of an ardent and passionate youth, and of an innocent and susceptible maiden. The contrast between the court atmosphere, from which the lover has emerged, and the narrow circle of a little village household, is vividly felt. The hostile father becomes a heartless, intriguing courtier. An unavoidable necessity arises, of explaining the frightful resolution of a vigorous youth, a resolution apparently growing out of such a situation. The

creative poet finds this inner connection in an illusion which the father has produced in the soul of THE DRAMATIC ACTION. II the son, in a suspicion that his beloved is unfaith- ful. In this manner the poet makes the account

intelligible to himself and to others ; while freely inventing, he introduces an internal consistency. These inventions are, in appearance, little supplementary additions, but they make an entirely original production which stands over against the original occurrence as something new, and has something like the following contents : In the breast of a young nobleman, jealousy toward his beloved, a girl of the middle class, has been so excited by his father, that he destroys both her and himself by poison. Through this remodeling, an occurrence in real life becomes a dramatic idea. From this time forward, the real occurrence is unessential to the poet. The place, and family name are lost sight of ; indeed, whethej the event happened as reported, or what was the character of the victims, and of their parents, or their rank,

no longer matters at all ; quick perception and the first activity of creative power have given to the occurrence a universally intelligible meaning and an intrinsic truth. The controlling forces of the piece are no longer accidental, and to be found in

a single occurrence ; they could enter into a hundred cases, and with the accepted characters and the assumed connection, the outcome would always be the same. When the poet has once thus infused his own soul into the material, then he adopts from the real account some things which suit his purpose — the 12 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

title of the father and of the son, the name of the bride, the business of her parents, perhaps single traits of character which he may turn to account.

Alongside this goes further creative work ; the chief characters are developed, to their distinct individu-

alities ; accessory figures are created,— a quarrel- some accomplice of the father, another woman, the opposite of the beloved, personality of the parents ; new impulses are given to the action, and all these inventions are determined and ruled by the idea of the piece.

This idea, the first invention of the poet, the

silent soul through which he gives life to the mate-

rial coming to him from external sources, does not easily place itself before him as a clearly defined

thought; it has not the colorless clearness of an abstract conception. On the contrary, the peculiar-

ity in such work of the poet's mind is, that the chief parts of the action, the nature of the chief characters, indeed something of the color of the piece, glow in the soul at the same time with the idea, bound into an inseparable unity, and that they continually work like a human being producing and expanding in every direction. It is possible, of course, that the poet's idea, however securely he bears it in his soul, may never, during the process of composition, come to perfection in words, and that later, through reflection, but without having formulated it even for himself, he sets the possession of his soul into the stamped coin of speech, and comprehends it as the fundamental thought of his THE DRAMATIC ACTION. 13

drama. It is possible, indeed, that he has perceived the idea more justly according to the rules of his

art, than he has given the central thought of his work verbal expression.

If, however, it is inconvenient and often difficult for him to cast the idea of a growing play into a for-

mula, to express it in words, yet the poet will do well, even in the beginning of his work, to temper the ardor of his soul, and sharply discriminating, judge the idea according to the essential requisites

of the drama. It is instructive for a stranger to a piece to seek the hidden soul in the complete production, and however imperfect this may possibly be, give the thought formal expression. Much may

be recognized in this way that is characteristic of single poets. For example, let the foundation of Mmy Stuart be, — "The excited jealousy of a queen incites to the killing of her imprisoned rival;" and again of Love and Intrigue, *'The excited jealousy of a young nobleman incites to the killing of his humble beloved." These bare formu- las will be taken from the fulness of many-colored

life which in the mind of the creative poet is connected with the idea; yet something peculiar will become distinct in the construction of both pieces, in addition ; for example, that the poet using such a frame work was placed under the necessity of composing in advance the first part of the action, which explains the origin of the jealousy, and that the impelling force in the chief characters becomes operative just in the middle of the piece, and that 14 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. the first acts contain preferably the endeavours of the accessory characters,. to excite the fatal activity of one of the chief characters. It will be further noticed how similar in ultimate principle is the construction and motive of these two plays of Schiller, and how both have a surprising similarity in idea and plan, to the more powerful Othello. The material which is transformed through the dramatic idea, is either invented by the poet specially for his drama, or is an incident related from the life which surrounds him, or an account which history offers, or the contents of a tradition, or novel, or narrative poem. In all of these cases, where the poet makes use of what is at hand, it has already been humanized by the impress of an idea. Even in the above supposed newspaper notice, the incipient remodeling is recognizable. In the last sentence,

"There is a rumor of an attachment," etc., the reporter makes the first attempt to transform the mere fact into a consistent story, to explain the tragic occurrence, to bring to the lovers a greater degree of interest, so that a more attractive meaning is given to their condition. The practice of transformation, through which consistency and a meaning corresponding to the demands of the think-

ing person are given to real events, is no prerogative of the poet. Inclination toward this, and capability for it, are active in all persons, and at all times. For thousands of years the human race has thus transposed for itself life in heaven and on earth ; it

has abundantly endowed its representations of the THE DRAMATIC ACTION. 15

divine with human attributes. All heroic tradition has sprung from such a transformation of impres-

sions from religious life, history, or natural objects, into poetic ideas. Even now, since historic culture prevails, and respect for the real relations of the great events of the world has risen so high, this tendency to explain occurrences shows itself in the greatest as well as in the least matters. In every anecdote, even in the disagreeable gossip of society,

its activity is manifest, endeavoring, even if what is real remains unchanged, to present vividly and with

spirit some trait of narrow life, or from the necessity of the raconteur, to make himself in contrast with others more surely and better observed.

Historical material is already brought into order through some idea, before the poet takes possession

of it. The ideas of the historian are not at all poet-

ical ; but they have a specific and shaping influence

on every part of the work which is brought through

them into being. Whoever describes the life of a man, whoever makes an exposition of a section of past time, must set in order his mass of material

from an established point of view, must sift out the unessential, must make prominent the most essential. Still more, he must seek to comprehend the

contents of a human life or a period of time ; he must take pains to discover ultimate characteristics and intimate connection of events. He must also know tfie connection of his material with much that is* external, and much that his work does not present. In certain cases, indeed, he must supplement i6 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. what has been delivered to him, and so explain the unintelligible, that its probable and possible meaning is evident. He is finally directed in the arrangement of his work, by the laws of creation, which have many things in common with the laws of poetic composition. Through his knowledge and his art, he may from crude material create a picture exciting wonder, and produce upon the soul of the reader the most powerful effect. But he is distinguished from the poet by this, that he seeks conscientiously to understand what has actually occurred, exactly as 'it was presented to view, and that the inner connection which he seeks is produced by the laws of nature which we revere as divine, eternal, incomprehensible. To the historian, the event itself, with its significance for the human mind, seems of most importance. To the poet, the highest value lies in his own invention ; and out of fondness for this, he, at his convenience, changes the actual incident. To the poet, therefore, every work of an historical writer, however animated it may be through the historical idea recognized in' its contents, is still

only raw material, like a daily occurrence ; and the most artistic treatment by the historian is useful to the poet, only so far as it facilitates his comprehension of what has really happened. If the poet has, in history, found his interest awakened in the person

of the martial prince, Wallenstein ; if he perceives vividly in his reading a certain connection between

the deeds and the fate of the man ; if he is touched

or shocked by single characteristics of his real life, THE DRAMATIC ACTION. 17

—then there begins in his mind the process of reconstruction, so that he brings the deeds and fall of the hero into perfectly intelligible and striking connection, and he even so transforms the character of the hero as is desirable for a touching and thrilling effect of the action. That which in the historical character is only a subordinate trait, now becomes the fundamental characteristic of his being; the gloomy, fierce commander receives something of the poet's own nature; he becomes a high minded, dream- ing, reflecting man. Conformably with this character, all incidents are remodeled, all other characters determined, and guilt and calamities regulated. Through such idealization arose Schiller's Wallen- stein, a figure whose enchanting features have but little in common with the countenance of the historical Wallenstein. Indeed, the poet will have to be on his guard lest, in his invention, there be made to appear what to his contemporaries may seem the opposite of historical truth. How much the later poet may be limited by such a consideration, will be discussed later.

It will depend on the personality of the poet, whether the first rapture of his poetic activity is derived from the enchanting characteristics of man- kind, or from what is striking in real destiny, or from the really interesting in the color of the time, which he finds in the historical record. But from the moment when the enjoyment and ardor necessary to his production begin, he proceeds, indeed, with unfettered freedom, however faithfully he i8 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. seems to himself to adhere to historical material. He transforms all available material into dramatic forces.* (See Notes, commencing page 383.) Moreover, when the poet adopts material which has already been put in order more or less perfectly according to the laws of epic construction, as heroic poem, saga, artistically finished narrative, what is prepared for another species of poetry, is for him only material. Let it not be thought that an event with the persons involved, which has already been ennobled through an art so nearly allied, has for that reason a better preparation for the drama. On the contrar}^, there is between the great creations of the epic which shadow forth occurrences and heroes as they stand near each other, and dramatic art which represents actions and characters as they are developed through each other, a profound opposition which it is difficult for the creative artist to manage. Even the poetic charm which these ca?eated images exercise upon his soul, may render it the more difficult for him to transform them according to the vital requisites of his art. The

Greek drama struggled as severely with its material, which was taken from the epic, as the historic poet of our time must, with the transformation of historical ideas into dramatic. To transform material artistically, according to a unifying idea, means to idealize it. The characters of the poet, in contrast with the images from reality used as material, and according to a convenient craftsman's expression, are called ideals. THE DRAMATIC ACTION. 19 .

II.

WHAT IS DRAMATIC?

The dramatic includes those emotions of the soul which steel themselves to will, and to do, and those emotions of the soul which are aroused by a

deed or course of action ; also the inner processes which man experiences from the first glow of perception to passionate desire and action, as well as the influences which one's own and others' deeds exert upon the soul ; also the rushing forth of will power from the depths of man's soul toward the external world, and the influx of fashioning influences from the outer world into man's inmost being; also the coming into being of a deed, and its consequences on the human soul.

An action, in itself, is not dramatic. Passionate feeling, in itself, is not dramatic. Not the presentation of a passion for itself, but of a passion which

leads to action is the business of dramatic art ; not the presentation of an event for itself, but for its effect on a human soul is the dramatist's mission.

The exposition of passionate emotions as such, is in

the province of the lyric poet ; the depicting of thrilling events is the task of the epic poet. The two ways in which the dramatic expresses itself are, of course, not fundamentally different.

Even while a man is under stress, and laboring to turn his inmost soul toward the external, his surroun'd- ings exert a stimulating or repressing influence on 20 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

his passionate emotions. And, again, while what has been done exerts a reflex influence upon him, he does not remain merely receptive, but gains new

impulses and transformations. Yet, there is a difference in these closely connected processes. The

^ first, the inward struggle of man toward a deed, has

' always the highest charm. The second stimulates to more external emotion, a more violent co-opera-

tion of different forces ; almost all that satisfies curi-

1 osity belongs to this; and yet, however indispensa-

ble it is to the drama, it is principally a satisfying

, of excited suspense ; and the impatience of the

hearer, if he has creative power, easily runs in advance, seeking a new vehement agitation in the

soul of the hero. What is occurring chains the attention most, not what, as a thing of the past, has excited wonder. Since the dramatic art presents men as their inmost being exerts an influence on the external, or

as they are affected by external influences, it must

logically use the means by which it can make intelligible to the auditor these processes of man's

nature. These means are speech, tone, gesture. . It

must bring forward its characters as speaking, sing- ing, gesticulating. Poetry uses also as accessories

in her representations, music and scenic art. In close fellowship with her sister arts, with vigorous, united effort she sends her images into the receptive souls of those who are at the same time auditors and spectators. The impressions which she i produces are called effects. These dramatic effects THE DRAMATIC ACTION. 21

have a very peculiar character ; they differ not only from the effects of the plastic arts through the force of emphasis and the progressive and regular grada- tion of the chosen movement, but also from the powerful effects of music, in this, that they flow in at the same time through two senses, and excite with rapture not only emotional, but also intellectual activity.

From what has already been said, it is clear that the characters, presented according to the demands of dramatic art, must have something unusual in I their nature' which may distinguish them not only from the innumerable, more manifold, and more complicated beings whose images real life impresses on the soul, but also from the poetic images which are rendered effective through other forms of art, the epic, the romance, the lyric. The dramatis persona must represent human nature, not as it is aroused and mirrored in its surroundings, active and full of feeling, but as a grand and passionately excited inner power striving to embody itself in a deed, trans- forming and guiding the being and conduct of others. Man, in the drama, must appear under powerful restraint, excitement, transformation. Spe- cially must there be represented in him in full activity those peculiarities which come effectively into conflict with other men, force of sentiment, violence of will, achievement hindered through passionate desire, just those peculiarities which make character and are intelligible through character. It thus happens, not without reason, that in the terms 22 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. of art, the people of a drama ^are_called^clmra^^ But the characters which are brought forward by poetry and her accessory arts, can evince their inner life only as participants in an event or occurrence, tTie course and internal connection of which becomes apparent to the spectator through the dramatic processes in the soul of the poet. This course of events, when it is arranged according to~tIie~demands of I dramatic art, is called the acEon?"^'^^'^ \ Each participant in the dramatic action has a

definite appointment with reference to the whole ; for each, an exact, circumscribed personality is necessary, which must be so constituted that so _much . of it as has a purpose may be conveniently perceived by the auditor, and what is common to man and what is peculiar to this character may be effectively represented by the actor by means of his art. Those spiritual processes which have been indicated above as dramatic, are, of course, not perfectly apparent in every person represented, specially on

the later stage, which is fond of bringing forward a greater number of characters as participants in the action. But the chief characters must abound in manner, them ; only when these, in_aa.-:appropriate exhibit their real nature with jKDwer and fulness, even to the inmost recesses of their heatts^ can the drama produce great effects. If this last dramatic

element is not apparent in the leading characters, is lifeless not. forced upon the hearer, the drama is ;

it is an artificial, empty form, without corre'sponding several contents ; and the pretentious co-operation of THE DRAMATIC ACTION. 23

combined arts makes this hoUowness the more painful. Along with the chief characters, the subordinate

persons participate in this dramatic life, each according to the space occupied in the piece. It does not entirely disappear, even in the least role, in those figures which with a few words can show their par-

ticipation ; the attendant or the messenger, owes it as a duty, at least to the actor's art, by costume, manner of speech, deportment, gesture, posture at entering, to represent in a manner suitable to the piece what he personates, so far as externals will do

it, even if meagerly and modestly. But since the representation of these mental processes, which are the prerogative and requisite of the drama, requires time, and since the poet's time

for the producing of effects is limited according to

the custom of his people, it follows that the event

\ represented must bring the chief characters much

I more boldly into prominencQ.„ than Js_necessary in

' an actual occurrence which is brought about through the general activity of many persons.

The capability of producing dramatic effects is not accorded to the human race in every period of jits existence. Dramatic poetry appears later than

epic and lyric ; its blossoming among any people I depends on the fortunate conjunction of many impelling forces, but specially on this, that in the

actual life of the contemporary public, the corre- Isponding mental processes are frequently and fully i\ seen. This is first possible when the people have TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA, 24 FREYTAG-S development, when men reached a certain degree of observe themselves and have become accustomed to the impulse to a deed when others critically under degree of flex.b.h y and speech has acquired a high the individual is no longer a clever dialect; when tradition and external bound by the interdict of and popular custom but .s force, ancient formula fashion his own life. We dis- able more freely to the dramatic has come tinguish two periods in which This intensification of the to the human race. ancient for the first time in the . human soul appeared before Christ, when the Cb world, about 500 years Hellenic commu- youthful consciousness of the free of commerce, with free- nity awoke with the bloom the participation of the dom of speech, and with The dramatic spirit citizen in affairs of state. newer family of appeared the second time, in the Reformation, at the European peoples, after the mind and spirit, same time with the deepening of sixteenth century, which was produced through the but also among the not only among the Germans, methods. Centuries Latin races, but by different effort of the before the inception of this mighty but the various human spirit, not only the Hellenes, already been branches of migrating nations, had and art of developing the rudiments of a speech There, pantomime which was seeking the dramatic. the gods had as here, great festivals in honor of and the occasioned the song in ceremonial costume, entrance of playing of popular masques. Bu£ the exhibitions. dramatic power into these lyric or epic ;

THE DRAMATIC ACTION. 25

was in both cases a wonderfully rapid, almost sudden one. Both times, the dramatic was devel-

oped, from the moment it became alive, with a marvellous power to a beauty which, through the

later centuries, it has not easily reached. Immedi- ately after the Persian wars, came ^schylus, Sophocles, and Euripides in close succession. Shortly after the Reformation, there appeared

among the European nations, first in England and Spain, and later in France, last of all among the Germans, left behind through helpless weakness,

the highest popular florescence of this rare art.

But there is this difference between the beginning of the dramatic in the old world and in ther\ !new: the drama of antiquity originated in tjjejyric^,

choral song ; that of the newer world rests on Jhe epic enjoyment "in the exhibition of important events. In the former, from the beginning, the

^passionate excitement of feeling was the charm ; in the latter, the witnessing of thrilling incident.!

This difference of origin has powerfully influenced \

the form and meaning of the drama in its artistic '

development ; and however eminent the contribu- tions of art were in both periods, they retained something essentially different.

But even after dramatic life had arisen among the people, the highest effects of poetry remained the prerogative of a few, and since that time dramatic power has not been accorded to every poet

indeed, it does not pervade with sufficient power every work even of the greatest poets. We may 26 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

conclude that even in Aristotle's time, those stately plays with a simple action, with no characteristic desires on the part of the leading persons, with loosely connected choruses, hadr-^iQssibly, lyric, but notdraniatic-bea«ty^ And among theliTstoric plays which, year after year, are written in Ger- many, the greater part contains little more than mangled history thrown into dialogue, some epic

material thrown into scenic form, at all events nothing of dramatic character. Indeed, single poems of the greater poets suffer from the same lack. Only two celebrated dramas need here be named. The Hecuba of Euripides shows, until toward the end,

only a little progress, and that entirely unsatisfac- tory, from the_ excited disposition, toward ,a..deed^; ^ first in the^final conflict againstJPplymnestor does \ If Hecuba exhibit a passion that becomes a determi-

nation ; here the dramatic suspense first begins ; up to this point there_was evokedfrom the briefly sketched and pathetic circumstances of the chief characters, V. , only lyric complaints. And again, in Shakespeare's Henry V., in which the poet wished to compose a patriotic piece according to the old epic customs of

his stage, with military parades, fights, little episodes, there is apparent neither Jn ^yie chief^characters, nor in their accessories, any deeply laid^foundation for their "deeds,' in a dramatically presentable motive. In short waves, wish and demand rip-

ple along ; the actions themselves are th^ -chief thing. Patriotism must excite a lively interest, as

in Shakespeare's time, and among his people, it :

THE DRAMATIC ACTION. 27

always did abundantly. For us, the play is less presentable than the parts of Henry VI. On the contrary, to name only a few of one poet's pieces, Macbeth, as far as the banquet scene, the whole of

Coriola?ius, Othello, Romeo and Juliet, Julius Ccesar, t Lear, up to the hovel scene, and Richard III., contain the most powerful dramatic elements that have ever been created by a Teuton or a Saxon. From the inner struggles of the leading charac-

ters, the judgment of contemporaries, as a rule, or at

; least that of the immediately following time, rates

the significance of a piece. Where this life is want- j ing, no skill in treatment, no attractive material, is able to keep the work alive. Where this dramatic

life is present, even later times regard with great respect a poetical composition and gladly overlook

its shortcomings.

III. UNITY OF ACTION.

By action is meant, an event or occurrence, arranged according to a controlling idea, and hav-

ing its meaning made apparent by the characters.

It is composed of many elements, and consists in a number of dramatic efficients {jnomente^, which become effective one after the other, according to a regular arrangement. The action of the serious drama must possess the following qualities // must prese?it complete unity.

This celebrated law has undergone a very differ- ;

28 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

ent application with the Greeks and Romans, with the Spanish and French, with Shakespeare and the Germans, which has been occasioned partly by those learned in art, partly by the character of the stage. The restriction of its claims through the French classics, and the strife of the Germans with the three unities, of place, of time, and of action, have for us only a literary-historical interest.^ No dramatic material, however perfectly its con-

nections with other events have been severed, is independent of something presupposed. These indispensable presupposed circumstances must be so far presented to the hearer, in the opening scenes, that f

' he may first survey the groundwork of the piece, not in detail, indeed, lest the field of the action

itself, be limited ; then immediately, time, people, place, establishment -of suitable relations between

^ the chief persons who appear, and the unavoidable

' threads which come together in these, from whatever has been left outside the action. When, for instance, in Love and Intrigue, an already exist- ing love affair forms the groundwork, the hearer must be given a sharp informing glance into this relation of the two leading characters, and into the fam-

ily life from which the tragedy is to be developed. Moreover, in the case of historical material, which

is furnished by the vast and interminable connections of the great events of the world, this exposi-

tion of what has gone before is no easy undertaking

and the poet must take heed that he simplify it as much as possible. THE DRAMATIC ACTION. 29

From this indispensable introduction, the begin- ^ ning of the impassioned action must arise, like the

first notes of a melody from the introductory

chords. This first stir of excitement, this stimu-

lating impulse, is of great importance for the effect of the drama, and will be discussed later. The end of js the action must, also, appear as the intelligible and

' inevitable result of the entire course of the action,

the conjunction of forces ; and right here, the inher-

ent necessity must be keenly felt ; the close must, however, represent the complete termination of the strife and excited conflicts. Within these limits, the action must move forward with uniform consistency. This internal

consistency is produced by representing an event

. which follows another, as an effect of which that

other is the evident cause ; let that which occasions, be the logical cause of occurrences, and the new scenes and events be conceived as probable, and generally understood results of previous

actions ; or let that which is to produce an effect,

. be a generally comprehensible peculiarity of a

' character already made known. If it i s unavoidable.Jka^jiMll^SJ^^?^^^^^^^ q£'?Y?5|s, riew incidents appear, unexpected to the auditor, or very surprising, these must be explained imperceptibly, but perfectly, through what has preceded. This laying i the foundation of the drama is called, assigning the

^ motive i^motivireii) . Through the motives, the elements of the action are bound into an artistic,

* connected whole. This binding together of inci- 30 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

dents by the free creation of a causative connec

tion, is the distinguishing characteristic of this

species of art. Through this linking together of

incidents, dramatic idealization is effected. Let the remodeling of a narrative into a dramatic action serve as an example. There lived in Verona two noble families, in enmity and feuds of long

standing. As chance would have it, the son of one family, together with his companions, play the presumptuous trick of thrusting themselves disguised into a masked ball, given by the chief of the other house. At this ball the intruder beholds the daughter of his enemy, and in both arises a reckless passion. They determine upon a clandestine marriage and are wedded by the father confessor of the maiden. Then fate directs that the new bridegroom

is betrayed into a conflict with the cousin of his

bride, and because he has slain him in the duel, is banished from his country by the prince of the land, under penalty of death. Meantime a distinguished suitor has visited the parents to sue for the hand of the newly married wife. The father disregards the despairing entreaties of his daughter, and appoints the day for the marriage. In these fearful circumstances, the young woman receives from her priest, a sleep-potion which shall give her the appearance of death; the priest undertakes to remove her pri- vately from the coffin and communicate her embarrassing situation to her distant husband. But again an unfortunate chance directs that the husband, in a foreign land, is informed of the death of his wife, THE DRAMATIC ACTION. 31

before the messenger of the priest arrives. He hastens, in secret, back to his native city, and forces his way into the vault, where lies the body of his wife. Unfortunately, he meets there the man destined by her parents to be her bridegroom, kills him, and upon the coffin of his beloved, drinks the fatal poison. The loved one awakes, sees her dying husband, and stabs herself with his dagger.*

This narrative is a simple account of a striking

occurrence. The fact, that all this so happened, is

told ; how and why it so came about, does not mat-

ter. The sequence of narrated incidents possesses no close connection. Chance, the caprice of fate, an unaccountable conjunction of unfortunate forces, occasions the progress of events and the catastrophe.

Indeed, just this striking sport of chanCe is what gives enjoyment. Such a material appears specially

unfavorable for the drama ; and yet a great poet has

made from it one of his most beautiful plays. The facts have remained, on the whole, un- V changed; only their connection has become different.

The task of the poet was not to present the facts to v

us, on the stage, but to make them perceptible in 1 the feeling, desire, and action of his persons, to make them more evident, to develop them in accordance with probability and reason. He had, in the first place, to set forth what was naturally prereq-

uisite to the action ; the brawls in an Italian city, in a time when swords were carried, and combative- ness quickly laid hand to weapon, the leaders of both parties, the ruling power which had trouble to 32 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF, JHE DRAMA.

restrauTthe" rcstie^s within proper limits ; then the determination of the Capulets to give a banquet. Then he must represent the merry conceit which brought Romeo and his attendants into the Capu- lets' house. This exciting impulse, the beginning

of the action, must not appear an accident ; it must be accounted for from the characters. Therefore it was necessary to introduce the companions of Romeo, fresh, in uncontrolled, youthful spirits, playing with life. To this necessity for establishing motives, Mercutio owes his existence. In contrast with his mad companions, the poet had fashioned the dejected Romeo, whose nature, even before his entrance into the excited action, must express its amorous passion. Hence his vagaries about Rosa- lind. This availed to make probable the awakening passion of the lovers. For this, the masque-scene and the balcony-scene were constructed. Every enchantment of poetry is here used to the greatest purpose, to make apparent, conceivable and as a matter of course, that henceforward the sweet passion of the lovers determines their lives. The accessory figures, which enter into the piece from this point, must forward the complication, and aid in giving motive toward the tragic outcome.

For the narrative, it was sufficient that a priest performed the marriage rites, and gave direction to the unfortunate intrigue ; such aids have always been at hand ; as soon, however, as he himself has stepped upon the stage, and by his words has entered the action, he must receive a personality which accounts THE DRAMATIC ACTION. 33 for all that follows ; —he must be good-hearted and sympathetic, and through his goodness of heart, merit full confidence ; he must be unpracticed, and inclined to quiet artifices as frequently the better priests of the Italian church are, in order to venture later, the doubtful play of death for his penitent. Thus originated Laurence. After the wedding, the unfortunate affair with Tybalt comes into the story. Here the dramatic poet had special motive in taking from the character entering so suddenly, all that was merely casual.

It could not suffice for him to introduce Tybalt as a

hot-headed brawler ; without letting the spectator see his purpose, he must lay the foundation in what had gone before, for the peculiar hatred toward Romeo and his companions. Hence the little side scene at the masked ball, in which Tybalt's anger flames up at the intrusion of Romeo. And in this scene itself, the poet had to bring to bear the strongest motive, to compel Romeo to engage in the. duel. Mercutio must first be slain for this reason, and for the further purpose of heightening the tragic power of the scene, and accounting for the wrath of the prince. To send Romeo immediately into banishment, as is done in the narrative, would be impossible in the drama. To show the spectator that the loving pair were bound inseparably to each other, there was the most pressing necessity to give to their excited passion the deepest intensity. How the poet succeeded in this is known to all. The scene on the marriage ;

34 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

eve is the climax of the action ; and by poetic elaboration, which need not be explained here, it arises to the highest beauty. But this scene was necessary on other grounds. Juliet's character renders necessary a rising into what is noble. It must be shown that the lovely heroine is capable of magnificent emotion, of mighty passion in order that her later, despairing determination may be found consistent with her nature. Her marvellous inward conflict over Tybalt's death and Romeo's banishment must precede the wedding night, to impart to her nuptial longing the beautifully pathetic element which increases the interest in this always delicate scene. But even the possibility of this scene must be made clear. Its accessory persons. Friar Lau- rence and the nurse, are again significant. The character of the nurse, one of Shakespeare's unsurpassable inventions, is, likewise, not fashioned acci- dentally just as she is, she is a suitable accomplice ; and she makes explicable Juliet's inward withdrawal from her and the catastrophe. Immediately after her wedding night, the command is given to Juliet to be married to Paris. That the beautiful daughter of the wealthy Capulet would find a distinguished suitor, and that her father,—for whose hot-headedness a sufficient ground has already been laid, —would exercise harsh compulsion in the matter, would be conceded by the hearer without further preparation, as probable and a matter of course. But it is a matter of much consequence to the dramatist, to lay beforehand the foundation for THE DRAMATIC ACTION. 35 this important event. Already, before the marriage of Juliet, he has Paris receive her father's promise; he would throw this dark* shadow upon the great love scene ; and he would account right distinctly, and to the common understanding for the approaching calamity. Now the fate of the loving pair has been put into the weak hands of Friar Laurence. Up to this point, the drama has carefully excluded every intrusion of any chance. Even to the jnost minute accessory fact, all is accounted for by the kind of characters. Now a tremendous destiny is weighing down upon two unfortunates : spilled blood, deadly family hate, a clandestine marriage, banishment, a new wooing,— all this is pressing upon the hearer's sensibility with a certain compulsion. The introduction of little explanatory motives is no longer effective, and no longer necessary. Now the strata- gem of the stupid visionary priest can be thwarted by an accident; for the feeling that it was desperate and presumptuous in the highest degree, to expose a living person to the incalculable chances of a sleep -potion and burial, has become so strong in the hearer's mind, that he already considers anr unhappy result as probable.

Thus the catastrophe is introduced and given a foundation. But that the hope of a happy outcome may entirely vanish from the mind of the spectator, and that the inherent necessity of ruin may yet at the last moment overtop the foreboding of unavoid- ;

36 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. able fatalities in the burial vault, Romeo must slay Paris before the tomb. The death of this stranger is the last force fur- thering the sad end of the lovers. Even when Juliet now in a fortunate moment awakes, her path and Romeo's is so overflowed with blood, that any good fortune, or even life, has become improbable to them. The task undertaken here has been only to point out in a few chief particulars the contrast between inner dramatic unification and epic narration. The piece contains still an abundance of other motives and even the minute details are so dovetailed and riveted as to evince the dramatist's special purpose.

The internal unity of a dramatic action is not secured merely by making a succession of events appear as the deeds and sufferings of the same hero.

No great fundamental law of dramatic creation is more frequently violated, even by great poets, than

this one ; and this disregard has always interfered with the effects of even the power of genius. The

Athenian stage suffered on this account ; and Aris- totle attempted to meet the evil, when in his firm way he said: "The action is the first and most important thing, the characters only second;" and,

"The action is not given unity by being made to concern only one person." Especially, we later ones; who are most frequently attracted by the charm of historical material, have urgent reason to cling to the law, that union about a person alone THE DRAMATIC ACTION. 37

does not suffice to gather and bind the events into unity.

It still frequently happens that a poet undertakes

to present the life of an heroic prince, as he is at variance with his vassals, as he wages war with his

neighbors and the church, and is again reconciled to them, and as he finally perishes in one of these con-

flicts; the poet distributes the principal moving forces

of the historical life among the five acts and three hours of the acting play, makes in speech and response an exposition of political interests and party

standpoints, interweaves well or ill a love episode, and thinks to have changed the historical picture

into a poetic one. He is positively a weak-hearted destroyer of history, and no priest of his proud god-

dess. What he has produced is not history, and not drama. He has, sure enough, yielded to some

of the demands of his art ; he has omitted weighty

events which did not suit his purpose ; he has fashioned the character of his hero simply and according to rule, has not been sparing in additions, small and great, has here and there substituted for the complicated connections of historical events, invented

ones. Through all this, however, he has attained a

general effect which is at best a weak reflection of

the sublime effect that the life of the hero would

have produced, if well presented by the historian; i^and his error has been in putting the historic idea in the place of the dramatic idea. Even the poet who thinks more worthily of his

art, is in danger, when busied with historical matter, 38 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. of seeking a false unity. The historical writer has taught him that the shifting events of historic life are accounted for by the peculiarities of characters, which assume results, which conjure up a fatality. The effect which the intimate connections of an historic life produce, is powerful, and excites wonder. Determined by such a force of the real, the poet seeks to comprehend the inner connections of events in the characteristic elements of the hero's life.

The character of the hero is to him the last motive in laying the foundation for the various vicissitudes of an active existence. A German prince, for example, powerful and high spirited, is forced by sheer violence into conflicts and submission; in heart-rend- ing humiliation and deepest abasement, he finds again his better self, and subdues his soaring pride ; such a character may possess all the qualities of a dramatic hero, —what is universally comprehensible and significant gushes forth powerfully from the

casual in his earthly life ; and his lot in life shows a relation between guilt and punishment, which

takes hold of men's minds ; he appears as the artif-

icer of his own happiness or misery ; the germ and essence of his life may be very like a poetic idea. But just before such a similarity, let the poet pause in distrust. He has to ask himself whether through his art he can infuse anything more powerful or

effective than the story itself offers ; or, indeed, whether he is at all in a position to enlarge through his art any part of the effects which, perceiving in advance, he admires in the historical material. Of THE DRAMATIC ACTION. 39 course he may intensify the character of his hero. What was working in the soul of Henry IV. as he journeyed toward Canossa and stood in his peni- tential garment by the castle wall, is the secret of the poet ; the historian knows very little to tell about it. To such impelling forces of a real life, the poet has an inalienable right. But the disposition and transformations of the historical hero

do not fashion . themselves completely in short periods of personal isolation ; and what the poet was lured by was exactly an heroic nature whose original texture showed itself in various occurrences. Now these occurrences which the historian reports, are very numerous. The poet is obliged to limit himself to a very few. He is obliged to remodel these few in order to give them the significance which in reality the course of the whole had. He will see with astonishment how difficult this is, and how by this means his hero becomes smaller and weaker, and that his historic idea is completed with so little. But, even in the representation of these selected events, the poet is poorer than the historian. Every one of his impelling forces must have an introduc-

tion that will account for it ; he mnst introduce to the spectator his Hannos, his Ottos, his Rudolphs

and Henrys ; he must to a certain extent make

their affairs attractive ; two or three times in the

piece he will create excitement, then allay it ; the persons will throng and conceal each other on the

narrow stage ; the rising interest of hearers will every now and then relapse. He will make the 40 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

astonishing discovery that the hearer's suspense is usually not produced by the characters, however interesting these may be, but only through the prog-

ress of the action ; and he will at best attain only one or the other greatly elaborated scene with pure

dramatic life, which stands alone in a desert of sketchy, brief suggestions of mutilated history, and cramped invention. Engaged in such labor upon the abundant beau-

tiful material offered in history, the poet has proba-

bly often abandoned the material without seeing its beauty. To idealize an entire political human life

is a prodigious undertaking. Cyclic dramas, trilogies, tetralogies, may in most cases scarcely sufifice for this. A single historic movement may give the dramatist superabundant material. For, as faith begins when knowledge ends, so poetry begins when

history leaves off. What history is able to declare can be to the poet only the frame within which he paints his most brilliant colors, the most secret

revelations of human nature ; how shall space and Mnward freedom remain to him for this, when he must toil and moil to present a succession of historical events? Schiller has made use, in his two greatest historical pieces, of the historical catas-

trophe only, the last real historical life scenes of a ; and for so small an historic segment he has required in Wallenstein three dramas. Let this example be

taken to heart. It is true Gbtz von Bcrlichingen will always be considered a very commendable poem, because the chivalric anecdotes which are excel- THE DRAMATIC ACTION. 41

lently presented with short, sharp strokes, hold the

reader spellbound ; but upon the stage the piece is

not an effective drama ; and the same is true of

Egmont, although its feeble action, and the lack of

characterization of its hero, is to a certain extent

compensated for m the greater elaboration of its vigorous female characters. Concerning the artless treatment of historical material through the epic traditions of our old stage, Shakespeare, above all others, has given hints to the Germans. His historic plays, taken from Eng- lish history, the structure of which, except Richard

III. we should not imitate, had a far different justification. At that time there was no writing of his-

tory, as we understand the term ; and as the poet made use of material from historic resources for his artistic figures, he wrought from an abundance, and opened up the immediate past to his nation, in a multitude of masterly character sketches. But he, himself, achieved for the stage of his time the

wonderful advance to a complete action ; and we owe to him, after he began to make use of the material in Italian novels, our comprehension of how irreplaceable the noble effects are which are produced by a unified and well-ordered action. His

Roman plays, if one makes allowance for a few of the practices of his stage, and the third act of A?ito?iy and Cleopatra, are models of an established construction. We do not do well to imitate what he has overcome. Without doubt, the influence of the characters on 42 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. the texture of the action, is greater in the modern drama than on the stage of the ancients. As the first impulse toward creation comes to the Germanic mind frequently through the characteristic features

of an historic hero ; as the delineation of the characters and their representation by actors have received a finer finish than was possible in the Greek masque tragedy, so will the character of the hero exert greater influence on the structure of the action, but only that we may thereby account for the inner, consistent, unified action through the characteristic peculiarities of the hero. Such an establishing of motive was not unknown to the Greeks. Already in one of the older plays of ^Eschylus, The Suppli- ants, the vacillating character of the King of Argos is made so prominent that one distinctly recognizes how, in the missing piece which followed, the poet had laid the motive in this for the surrender of the Danaids, who were begging protection. Sophocles is specially skilful in introducing as controlling motive some marked trait of his characters, for example, Antigone, Ajax, Odysseus. Indeed,

Euripides is even more like the Germans than Sophocles in this, that he delights in making more prominent the peculiarities of his characters. In general, however, the epic trend of the fable was

much stronger than with us ; as a rule the persons were fashioned according to the demands of a well known and already prepared network of events, as in the case of Agamemnon, Clytemnestra, Orestes.

This was an advantage to the Greeks, but to us it —

THE DRAMATIC ACTION. 43 seems a restraint. With us the poet not seldom finds himself in the position, that his hero is seeking an action which shall be a luminous center, throwing light on everything that approaches it. We will be able to explain, from his nature, what is more profound and hidden. But however rigidly we construct the action according to his needs, it must always be composed of individual parts which belong to the same event, and this must extend from the beginning to the end of the piece. Among the

Greeks, Sophocles is our master in the management of this dramatic unity, Euripides unconscionably against it. How, in his serious plays, Shakespeare disclosed this law to himself, and gradually to us,

in the face ' of the sixteenth century stage, has already been mentioned. Among the Germans,

Lessing preserves the unity with great care ; Goethe, in the short action of Clavigo, and in the later plays in which he had thought of the stage Tasso and Iphigcnia. Schiller has observed the law faithfully in

Love and hitrigue. Is it an accident that in his last plays, in Tell, and in Demetrius, so far as this play may be judged from notices of it, he has neglected the law? Whenever he approached the bounds of license, it occurred through his delight in episodes and in double heroes, as in Don Carlos, Mary Stuart, and Walle?istei?i. Of kinds of material, those taken from epic legends make it not difficult to preserve the unity of

action ; but their action does not easily permit dramatic elaboration of characters. Material from 44 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. novels preserves well the unity of action, but the characters, on account of the entangled action, are easily thrown about with too little freedom of movement, or they are restrained in their movement through the portrayal of situations. Historical material offers the greatest and most beautiful

opportunities ; but it is very difficult to combine it into a good action. The poet's interest in the characters of his counter-players easily mounts so high that to them is accorded a rich, detailed portrayal, a sympathetic exposition of their striving and their fighting moods, and a peculiar destiny. Thereby arises a double

action for the drama ; or the action of the piece

may be of such a nature as to require for its illu- i mination and completion a subordinate action, which through the exposition of concurrent or opposing

relations brings into greater prominence the chief 1 persons, with what they do and what they suffer. Various defects — especially one-sidedness — in material, may make such a completion desirable.

One play is not to run through the whole wide

range of affecting and thrilling moods ; it is not to

play from its sober ground color, through all the

possible color-tones ; but a variation in mood and modest contrasts in color are as necessary to the

drama as it is that in a painting in which there are many figures, the swing of the lesser lines should \

be in contrast with the greater lines and groups, and I that in contrast with the ground color, use should be made of dependent, supplementary colors. A THE DRAMATIC ACTION. 45 specially somber material renders necessary the introduction of bright accessory figures. To contrast with the defiant characters of Iphigenia and Creon, the milder counterparts, Ismene and Haemon,

were invented ; through the introduction of Tec- messa, the despair of Ajax receives an affecting tone, the magic charm of which we still feel to-day. The gloomy, pathetic Othello requires opposed to him some one in whom the unrestrained freedom of humor is apparent. The somber figure of Wal- lenstein and his companions in intrigue imperatively demands that the brilliant Max be joined with them.

If, for this reason, the Greeks classed their plays into those with single action, and those with double action, the modern drama has much less avoided the extension of counter-play into an accessory action. The interweaving of this with the main action has occurred sometimes at the expense of the combined effect. The Germans, especially, who are always inclined, during their labor, to grasp the significance of the accessory persons with great ardor, must guard themselves against too wide an extension of the subordinate action. Even Shakes- peare has occasionally, in this way, injured the effect of the drama, most strikingly in Leat% in which the whole parallel action of the house of Gloucester, but loosely connected with the main action, and treated with no particular fondness, retards the movement, and needlessly renders the whole more bitter. The poet allowed the episodes in both parts of He?iry IV. to develop into an 46 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

accessory action, the immortal humor of which out-

shines the serious effect of the play ; and this has made these dramas favorites of the reader. Every admirer of Falstaff will grant, however, that the general effect on the stage has not the correspond-

ing power, in spite of this charm. Let it be noticed, in passing, that in Shakespeare's comedies the

double action belongs to the nature of the play ; he strives to take from his clowns the episodical, while he interweaves them with the serious action. The genial humor which beams from their scenes must sometimes conceal the harder elements in the

material ; as when the constables must help to prevent the sad fate threatening the heroine. Among Grerman poets, Schiller was most in danger of injury from the double action. The disproportion of the accessory action in Don Carlos and Mary Stuart rests upon this, that his ardor for the character set

in contrast to the hero, becomes too great ; in Wal- lenstein, the same principle has extended the piece to

a trilogy. In Tell, three actions run parallel.^ fc It is the business of the action to represent to us

the inner consistency of the event, as it corresponds I ^ to the demands of the intellect and the heart.

^ Whatever, in the crude material, does not serve this

purpose, the poet is in duty bound to throw away. And it is desirable that he adhere strictly to this

principle, to give only what is indispensable to unity. Yet he may not avoid a deviation from this ; for there will be occasional deviations desirable which A may strengthen the color of the piece, in a manner THE DRAMATIC ACTION. 47

conformable to its purpose ; which may intensify the meaning of the characters, and enhance the general effect by the introduction of a new color, or a contrast. These embellishing additions of the poet are called episodes. They are of various kinds. At a point where the action suffers a short pause, a characterizing moment may be enlarged into a situ-

ation ; opportunity may be given a hero to exhibit some significant characteristic of his being in an attractive manner, in connection with some subordi-

nate person ; some subordinate role of the piece may, through ampler elaboration, be developed into an attractive figure. By a modest use, which must not take time from what is more important, these may become an embellishment to the drama. And the poet has to treat them as ornaments, and to com- pensate for them with serious work, if they ever retard the action. The episodes perform different duties, according to the parts of the drama in which they appear. While at the beginning they enter into the roles of the chief persons to delineate these in their idiosyncracies, they are allowed in the last part as enlargements of those new roles which afford lesser aids to the movement of the action ; in each place, however, they must be felt to be advantageous additions.^ The Greeks understood this word in a somewhat broader sense. That which in the plays of Sopho- cles his contemporaries called episode, we no longer so name : for the ingenious art of this great master consisted, among other things, in this, that he inter- 48 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. wove his beautifying additions very intimately with his action, for the most part to set the characters of the chief heroes in a stronger light, by means of contrast. Thus, in Electra, in addition to the Ismene scene, mentioned later, Chrysomethis is indispensable according to our feeling for the chief heroine, and no longer as episode, but as part of the action. Moreover, where he paints a situation more broadly, as in the beginning of CEdipus at Colo?ws, such a portrayal corresponds throughout to the customs of our stage. Shakespeare treats his episodes almost exactly in the same way. Even in those serious plays, which have a more artistic construction, there are, in almost every act, partly extended scenes,

partly whole roles of episodical elaboration ; but there is so much of the beautiful worked in and with this, so much that is efficient for the combined effect, that the severest manager of our stage, who may be compelled to shorten the drama, rarely ever allows these passages to be expunged. Mer- cutio, with his Queen Mab, and the jests of the nurse, the interviews of Hamlet with the players and courtiers, as well as the grave-digger scene, are such examples as recur in almost all his plays. Almost superabundantly, and with apparent carelessness, the great artist adorns all parts of his piece with

golden ornaments ; but he who approaches to unclasp them, finds them fastened as if with steel, grown inseparably into what they adorn. Of the Germans, Lessing, with a reverential regularity joined his episodes to the carefully planned structure of his piece, THE DRAMATIC ACTION. 445

according to his own method, which was transferred

to his successors. His episodes are little character roles. The painter and countess Orsina, in Emilia

Galotti (the last, the better prototype of Lady Mil- ford), Riccault, in Minna von Barnhelm, indeed, even the Dervise in Natha?i The Wise, became models for the German episodes of the eighteenth century. Goethe has not honored them with a place in his regular plays, Clavigo, Tasso, Iphigeiiia. In Schiller, they throng abundantly in every form, as portrayals, as detailed situations, as accessory figures in the conjoined action. Frequently, through their pecul-

iar beauty, they are adapted to be effective adjuncts to the stilted, tedious movement, but not always; for we would gladly spare some single ones, like

Parricida in William Tell, just because in this case

the understood purpose is so striking; and The Black Knight in the Maid of Orleam; and not seldom the long-drawn observations and delineations in his dialogue-scenes.

IV.

PROBABILITY OF THE ACTION. /

The actio7i of the serious drama must be probable.

Poetic truth is imparted to material taken from real life, by its being raised above its casual connections and receiving a universally understood meaning and significance. In dramatic poetry, this transformation of reality with poetic truth is effected thus : the essential parts, bound together and unified r- by some causative connection, and all the accessory ^ 50 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

I inventions, are conceived as probable and credible '.motives of the represented events. But more than

this, poetic truth is needed in the drama. The entertained hearer surrenders himself gladly to the

invention of the poet ; he gladly lets the presump-

tion of a piece please him, and is in general quite inclined to approve of the invented human relations

% in the world of beautiful illusion ; but he is not able

entirely to forget the reality ; he holds close to this poetic picture, which rises full of charm before him, the picture of the real world in which he breathes. He brings with him before the stage a certain knowledge of historical relations, definite, ethical

and moral demands upon human life, presages and a clear knowledge of the course of events. To a

certain extent, it is impossible for him to renounce

this purport of his own life ; and sometimes he feels

A it very strongly when the poetic picture contradicts

it. That ocean vessels should land on the coast of Bohemia, that Charlemagne should use cannon, appears to our spectators a serious mistake.

That the Jew, Shylock, is promised mercy if he will turn Christian, shocks the moral sense of the

spectator, and he is probably not inclined to concede that a just judge has so decided. That Thoas, who in so refined and dignified a manner seeks the hand of the priestess Iphigenia, allows human sacrifices in his kingdom, appears as an internal contradiction between the noble personality of the characters and the presuppositions of the piece ; and however

' shrewdly the poet conceals this irrational element, it THE DRAMATIC ACTION. 51

yet may be injurious to the effect of the play. That CEdipus rules many years without troubling himself about the death of Laius, appears to the Athenians,

even at the first presentation of the play, as a doubt-

ful supposition.

Now it is well known that this picture of the real, which the spectator holds up against the single drama, does not remain the same in every century,

but is changed by each advance of human culture. The interpretation of past times, moral and social demands, the social relations, are nothing firmly

established ; but every spectator is a child of his

time ; for each the comprehension of what is com-

monly acceptable, is limited through his personality and the culture of his age.

And it is further clear that this picture of real

life shades off differently in the mind of each person, and that the poet, however fully and richly he

has taken into his own life the culture of his race

still is confronted with conceptions of reality in a thousand different tones. He has, indeed, the great calling to be, in his time, the apostle of the highest and most liberal culture, and without posturing as a teacher, to draw his hearers upward toward himself. But to the dramatic poet there are for this reason private bounds staked out. He must not exceed these bounds. He must not, in many cases, leave vacant any of the space which they enclose. Where they arise invisible, they may be divined in each single case only through delicate sensibility and trustworthy feeling. 52 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

The effects of dramatic art are, so to speak, sociable. As the dramatic work of art, in a combination of several arts, is represented through the general activity of numerous adjuncts, so is the audience of the poet a body composed of many changing individuals and yet, as a whole, a unit, which like every human congregation, might-

ily influences the individuals who compose it ; a certain agreement in feeling and contemplation develops, elevates one, depresses another, and to a great extent equalizes mood and judgment through a common opinion. This community of feeling in the audience expresses itself continually by its reception of the dramatic effects ; it may increase their power prodigiously, it may weaken them in an equal degree. Scarcely will a single hearer escape the influence which an unsympathetic house or an enthusiastic audience exercisep on him. Indeed, everyone has felt how different the impression is which the same piece makes, equally well presented on different stages before a differently constituted audience.

The poet, while composing, is invariably directed, perhaps without knowing it, by his conception of the intelligence, taste, and intellectual requirements of his audience. He knows that he must not attribute too much to it, nor dare he offer it too little. He must, moreover, so arrange his action that it shall not bring into collision with its presuppositions a good average of his hearers, who bring

these from actual life before the stage ; that is, he must make the connection of events and the motives THE DRAMATIC ACTION. 53

and outlines of his heroes probable. If he succeeds in this respect with the groundwork of his piece, the action and the outlines of his characters, as for the

rest, he may trust to his hearers the most refined culture and the keenest understanding which his performance contains. This consideration must guide the poet most

is strange p when he is tempted to put forward what or marvellous. To make charming what is strange,

is, indeed, possible. The dramatic art specially has

rich means of making it understood, and of laying

stress upon what is intelligible to us ; but for this

there is needed a special expenditure of force and

time; and frequently the question is justified, whether the effect aimed at warrants the expenditure of time and compensates for the limitation of the essentials occasioned. Especially the newer poets, with no definitely marked out field of material, in the midst of a period of culture to which the ready reception

of extraneous pictures is peculiar, can easily be enticed to gather material from the culture-relations, the civilization of a dark age, of remote peoples.

Perhaps just what is marvellous in such material has appeared peculiarly valuable for sharply delineating individual portraiture. Already a minute observation of early times in Germany, or of the old world, offers numerous peculiarities, circumstances unknown to the life of later times, in which a striking and

significant meaning is manifested of highest import to the historian of culture. These can be used by the poet, however, only in exceptional cases, 54 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. with most skilful treatment, and as accessories which deepen a color. For not out of the peculiarities of human life, but out of its immortal import, out of what is common to us and to the old times, blossom his successes. Still more he will avoid presenting such strange peoples as stand entirely outside the great forward movements of civilization. That which is unusual in their manners and customs, their costumes, or even the color of their skins, is distracting and excites attendant images which are unfavorable to serious art effects. In a crude way, the ideal world of poetry is joined in the hearer's mind with a picturing of real circumstances, which can claim an interest only because they are real. But even the inner life of such foreigners is unsuitable for dramatic expres-

sion ; for, without exception, the capability is in reality wanting in them of presenting in any fulness the inner mental processes which our art finds necessary. And the transferring of such a degree of culture into their souls, rightly arouses in the hearer a feeling of impropriety. Anyone who would lay the scene of his action among the ancient Egypt- ians or the present-day fellahs, among the Japanese or even Hindoos, would perhaps awaken an ethno- graphic interest by the strange character of his

people ; but this interest of curiosity in the unusual would not increase for the hearer before the stage the real interest in what may be the poetical meaning, but would thwart it and prejudice it. It is no accident that only such peoples are a fitting basis ;

THE DRAMATIC ACTION. 55

for the drama as have advanced so far in the development of their intellectual life that they themselves could produce a popular drama—Greeks, Romans,

cultured peoples of modern times ; after these, a people nearly like them, whose nationality has grown up with ours, or with the ancient culture, like the Hebrews—scarcely yet the Turks. How far the marvellous may be deemed worthy of the drama, cannot be doubtful even to us Ger- mans, upon whose stage the most spirited and most

amiable of all devils has received citizenship. Dra-

matic poetry is poorer and richer than her sisters, lyric and epic, in this respect, that she can represent

only men, and, if one looks more closely, only cultivated men, these, however, fully and profoundly as no other art can. She must arrange historical relations by inventing for them ah inner consistency which is thoroughly comprehensible to human understanding. How shall she embody the supernatural? But granted that she undertakes this, she can do it only in so far as the superhuman, already poetically prepared through the imagination of the people, and provided with a personality corresponding to the human, is personifiable through sharply stamped features even to details. Thus given form, the Greek gods lived in the Greek world among their people thus hover among us still, fashioned with affection, images of many of the holy ones of Christian legend, almost numberless shadowy forms, from the household faith of German primitive times. Not a few of the images of fancy have, through poetry, 56 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. legend, painting, and the spirit of our people, which, credulous or incredulous, is still busied with them, received so rich an amplification, that they surround the creating artist during his labor like old, trusted friends. The Virgin Mary, St. Peter at the gate of heaven, many saints, archangels, and angels, and not last the considerable swarm of devils, live among our people, credulously associated with women in white, the wild huntsman, elves, giants and dwarfs. But, however alluringly the colors gleam which they wear in their twilight, before the sharp illumination of the tragic stage, they vanish into unsubstantial shadows. For it is true they have received through the people a share in human feeling, and in the conditions of human life. But

this participation is only of the epic kind ; they are not fashioned for dramatic mental processes. In some of the most beautiful legends, the Germans make the little spirits complain that they cannot be happy ; that is that they have no human soul. The same difference, which already in the middle ages the people felt, keeps them in a different way from the modern stage—inward struggles are wanting in them, freedom fails to test and to choose, they stand outside of morals, law, right; neither a complete lack of changeableness, nor perfected purity, nor complete wickedness are presentable, because they exclude all inward agitation. Even the Greeks felt this. When the gods should rather be represented on the stage than speak a command ex machina, they must either become entirely men, with all the ;

THE DRAMATIC ACTION. 57 pain and rage, like Prometheus, or they must sink beneath the nobility of human nature, without the poets being able to hinder, down to blank generali- zations of love and hate, like Athene, in the prologue of Ajax. While gods and spirits have a bad standing in the serit)us drama, they have far better success in the comedy. And the now worn-out magic tricks give only a very pale representation of what our spirit world could be to a poet, in whimsical and humorous representation. If the Germans shall ever be ripe for political comedy, then will they learn to use the wealth, the inexhaustible treasure of motives and resistance which can be mined from this world of phantasy, for droll freaks, political satire, and humorous portraiture.

For what has been said, Faust is the best proof and in this play, the role of Mephistopheles. Here the genius of the greatest of German poets has created a stage problem which has become the favorite task of our character players. Each of them seeks in his own manner to solve, with credit

to himself, the riddle which can not be solved ; the one brings out the mask of the old wood-cut devil, another, the cavalier youth Voland ; at best, the player will succeed with the business v/ho contents himself prudently and with spirit to render intelligible the fine rhetoric of the dialogue, and exhibits in the comic scenes a suitable bearing and good humor. The poet has indeed made it exceedingly difficult for the player, of whom, during the com- 58 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

position of the piece, he did not think at all ; for the role changes into all colors, from the true- hearted speech of Hans Sachs, to the subtle discussion of a Spinozist, from the grotesque to the terrifying. And if one examines more closely how the representation of this piece still becomes possible on the stage, the ultimate reason is the entrance of a comic element. Mephistopheles appears in some serious situations, but is a comic figure treated in a grand style ; and so far as he produces an effect on the stage, he does it in this direction.

By this is not meant that the mysterious, that which has no foundation in human reason, should be entirely banished from the province of the drama. Dreams, portents, prophesyings, ghost-seers, the intrusion of the spirit world upon human life, everything for which there may be supposed to be a certain susceptibility in the soul of the hearer, the poet may employ as a matter of course for the occasional strengthening of his effects. It is understood in this that he must appreciate rightly the susceptibil-

ity of his contemporaries ; we are no longer much inclined to care for this, and only very sparing use of side effects is now accorded to the poet. Shake- speare was allowed to use this kind of minor

accessories with greater liberty ; for in the sentiments of evjen his educated contemporaries, the popular tradition was very vivid, and the connection with the world of spirits was universally conceived far differently. The soul-processes of a man strug- gling under a heavy burden, were, not only among ;

THE DRAMATIC ACTION. Sg

the people but with the more pretentious, very differently thought of. In the case of intense fear, qualm of conscience, remorse, the power of imagin-

ation conjured up before the sufferer the image of ,'•

the frightful, still as something external ; the murderer saw the murdered rise before him as a ghost

clutching into the air, he felt the weapon with which

he committed the crime ; he heard the voice of the dead ringing in his ear. Shakespeare and his hearers conceived, therefore, Macbeth's dagger even on the stage, and the ghosts of Banquo, Caesar, the

elder Hamlet, and the victims of Richard III., far differently from ourselves. To them this was not yet a bold, customary symbolizing of the inward struggles of their heroes, an accidental, shrewd invention of the poet, who supported his effects by

this ghostly trumpery ; but it was to them the necessary method, customary in their land, in which themselves experienced, dread, horror, struggles of soul. Dread was not artistically excited by recol-

lection of nursery tales ; the stage presented only what had been frightful in their own lives, or what could be. For while young Protestantism had laid the severest struggles in men's consciences, and while the thoughts and the most passionate moods of the excited soul had been already more carefully and critically observed by individuals, the mode of

thinking natural to the middle ages, had not, for i' that reason, quite disappeared. Therefore Shake- speare could make use of this kind of effects, and expect more from them than we can. 6o FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

But he furnishes at the same time the best example of how these ghost-like apparitions may be rendered artistically worthy of the drama. Who- ever must present heroes of past centuries according to the view of life of their time, will not entirely conceal men's lack of freedom from and dependence

on legendary figures ; but he will use them as Shake- speare used his witches in the first act of Macbeth, as arabesques which mirror the color and mood of the time, and which only give occasion for forcing from the inner man of the hero what has grown up in his own soul, with the liberty necessary for a dramatic figure.

It is to be observed that in the work of the modern poet, such accessories of the action serve especially to give color and mood. They belong also to the first half of the play. But even when they are interwoven with the effects of the later parts, their appearance must be arranged for in the first part, by a coloring in harmony with them ; and besides this, the way must be paved for them otherwise, with great care. Thus the appearance of The

Black Knight in the Maid of Orleans is a disturbing element, because his ghostly form comes to view with no preparation of the audience, and is thoroughly unsuitable to the brilliant, thoughtful language of Schiller, to the tone and color of the piece. The time and the action would, in themselves, have

very well allowed such an apparition ; and it appeared to the poet a counterpart to the Blessed Virgin who bears banner and sword in the play. THE DRAMATIC ACTION. 6i

But Schiller did not bring the Blessed Virgin her-

self upon the stage ; he only had her reported in his magnificent fashion. Had the prologue presented the decisive interview between the shepherdess and the Mother of God in such language and with such naive address as the material from the middle ages would suggest, then there would have been a better preparation for the later appearance of the evil spirit. In costume and speech, the role is not advantageously equipped. Schiller was an admirable master in the disposition of the most varied his-

torical coloring ; but the glimmer of the legendar}^ was not to the taste of one who always painted in full colors, and if a playful simile is allowed, used most fondly, gleaming golden yellow, and dark sky blue. On the other hand, Goethe, the unrestrained master of lyric moods, has made an admirable use of the spirit-world to give color to Faust, but not at all with a view to its presentation on the stage.

IMPORTANCE AND MAGNITUDE OF THE ACTION.

The actioii of the serious drajna must possess importance a?id magnitude.

The struggles of individual men must affect their inmost life ; the object of the struggle must, according to universal apprehension, be a noble one, the treatment dignified. The characters must correspond to such a meaning of the action, in order that the play may produce a noble effect. If the action 62 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

is constructed in conformity with the stated law, .

and the characters are inadequate to the demands f

thus created, or if the characters evince strong pas- - sion and extreme agitation, while these elements are

wanting to the action, the incongruity is painfully apparent to the spectator. Euripides' Iphige?iia in Aulis contains what affords to the stage the most

frightful struggles of the human soul ; but the characters, at least with the exception of Clytemnestra, are poorly invented, disfigured either through unnec-

• essary meanness of sentiment, or through lack of force, or through sudden, unwarranted change of

feeling ; thus Agamemnon, Menelaus, Achilles, Iphigenia. Again, in Shakespeare's Timoji of Athens, the character of the hero, from the moment when he

is aroused to activity, has an ever-increasing energy

and power, to which a gloomy grandeur is not at all lacking, but idea and action stand in incongruity

with it. That a warm-hearted, trusting spendthrift should, after the loss of external possessions, become a misanthrope through the ingratitude and meanness of his former friends, presupposes the weakness of his own character and the pitiableness of his sur-

roundings ; and this instability, lamentableness of all the relations represented, restrains the sympathy

of the hearer in spite of great poetic skill.

But even the environment, the sphere of life of the hero, influences the dignity and magnitude of I the action. We demand rightly that the hero

whose fate is to hold us spellbound, shall possess a character whose force and worth shall exceed the THE DRAMATIC ACTION. 63

measure of the average man. This force of his being, however, does not lie wholly in the energy of his will and the violence of his passion, but as well in his possessing a rich share of the culture, manners, and spiritual capacity of his time. He must be represented as superior in the important relations

of his surroundings ; and his surroundings must be so created as easily to awaken in the hearer a keen interest. It is, therefore, no accident that when an action is laid in past time, it always seeks the realm in which what is greatest and most important is contained, the greatest affairs of a people, the life of its leaders and rulers, those heights of humanity that have developed not only a mighty spiritual significance, but also a significant power of will. Scarce any but the deeds and destinies of such commanding figures have been handed down to us from the former times. With material from later times, the relations, of course, are changed. No longer are the most powerful passions and the sublimest soul-struggles to be recognized at courts and among political rulers alone, nor even generally. There remains, however, to these figures for the drama a pre-eminence which may be, for their life and that of their contemporaries, a positive disadvantage. They are now less exposed to the compulsion which middle-class society exercises on the private citizen. They are not, to the same degree as the private citizen, sub- jected to civil law, and they know it. In domestic and foreign conflicts, their own self has not greater 64 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. right but greater might. So they appear exposed to freer, more powerful temptation, and capable of greater self-direction. It must be added that the relations in which they live, and the directions in which they exert influence, offer the greatest wealth of colors and the most varied multiplicity of figures. Finally the counterplay against their char-

against their purposes is most effective acters and ; and the sphere of the interests for which they should live, embraces the most important affairs of the human race. The life of the private citizen has also been for centuries freeing itself from the external restraint of restricting traditions, has been gaining nobility and spiritual freedom, and become full of contradictions and conflicts. In any realm of reality, where worldly aims and movements resulting from the civilization of the times have penetrated, a tragic hero may be generated and developed in its atmosphere. It depends only on whether a struggle is possible for him, which, according to the general opinion of the audience, has a great purpose, and whether the opposition to this develops a corresponding activity worthy of consideration. Since, however, the importance and greatness of the conflict can be made impressive only by endowing the hero with the capability of expressing his inmost thought and feeling in a magnificent manner, with a

certain luxuriance of language ; and since these demands increase among such men as belong to the life of modern times,— to the hero of the modern —

THE DRAMATIC ACTION. 65 stage a suitable measure of the culture of the time is indispensable. For only in this way does he receive freedom of thought and will. Therefore, such classes of society as remain until our own time under the sway of epic relations, whose life directed the customs of their circle is specially by ; such classes as still languish under the pressure of circumstances which the spectator observes and

decides to be unjust ; finally, such classes as are not specially qualified to transpose, in a creative manner, their thoughts and emotions into discourse, such are not available for heroes of the drama, however powerfully passion works in their natures, however their feeling, in single hours, breaks out with spontaneous, native force.

From what has been said, it follows that tragedy must forego grounding its movement on motives which the judgment of the spectator will condemn as lamentable, common, or unintelligible. Even such motives may force a man into violent conflicts

with his environment ; but the dramatic art, considered in general, may be in a position to turn such antagonisms to account. He who from a desire for

gain, robs, steals, murders, counterfeits ; who from

cowardice, acts dishonorably ; who through stu- pidity, short-sightedness, frivolity, and thoughtless- ness, becomes smaller and weaker than his relations demand,— he is not at all suitable for hero of a serious play.

If a poet would completely degrade his art, and turn to account in the action of a play full of con- 66 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. tention and evil tendency, the social perversion of real life, the despotism of the rich, the torments of the oppressed, the condition of the poor who receive from society only suffering,—by such work he would probably excite the sympathy of the audi-

ence to a high degree ; but at the end of the play this sympathy would sink into a painful discord. The delineating of the mental processes of a common criminal belongs to halls where trial by jury is

held ; efforts for the improvement of the poor and oppressed classes should be an important part of

our labor in real life ; the muse of art is no sister of mercy.

VI. MOVEMENT AND RISE OF THE ACTION.

The dramatic action must represent all that is important to the understanding of the play, in the strong excitement of the characters, and in a continuously progressive increase of effects.

The action must, first of all, be capable of the

strongest dramatic excitement ; and this must be universally intelligible. There are great and important fields of human activity, which do not make the growth of a captivating emotion, a passionate

desire, or a mighty volition easy ; and again, there are violent struggles which force to the outside men's mental processes, while the subject of the struggle is little adapted to the stage, though importance and greatness are not lacking to it. For example, a politic prince, who negotiates with the THE DRAMATIC ACTION. 6y

powerful ones of his land, who wages war and concludes peace with his neighbors, will perhaps do all this without once exhibiting the least excited pas-

sion ; and if this does come to light as secret desire

or resentment toward others, it will be noticeable only by careful observation, and in little ripples.

But even when it is allowed to represent his whole being in dramatic suspense, the subject of his volition, a political success or a victory, is capable of being shown only very imperfectly and fragmen- tarily in its stage setting. And the scenes in which this round of worldly purposes is specially active, state trials, addresses, battles, are for technical reasons not the part most conveniently put on the stage. From this point of view, warning must be given against putting scenes from political history on the boards. Of course the difficulties which this field of the greatest human activity offers, are not

unsurmountable ; but it requires not only maturity of genius but very peculiar and intimate knowledge of the stage to overcome them. But the poet will never degrade his action by reducing it to an imperfect and insufficient exposition of such political

deeds and aims ; he will need to make use of a single action, or a small number of actions, as a background, before which he presents — and in this he is infinitely superior to the historian — a most minute revelation of human nature, in a few personages, and in their most intimate emotional relations with each other. If he fails to do this, he will in so far falsify history without creating poetry. 68 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

An entirely unfavorable field for dramatic material is the inward struggles which the inventor, the artist, the thinker has to suffer with himself and with his time. Even if he is a reformer by nature, who knows how to impress the stamp of his own spirit on thousands of others ; indeed, if his own material misfortunes may lay claim to unusual sympathy, the dramatist will not willingly conclude to bring him forward as the hero of the action. If the mental efforts, the mode of thought of such a hero, are not sufficiently known to the living audience, then the poet will have first to show his warrant for such a character by artful discourse, by a fulness of oral explanation, and by a representation of spiritual import. This may be quite as difficult as it is undramatic. If the poet presupposes in his auditors a living interest in such personages, acquaintance with the incidents of their lives, and makes use of this interest in order to avail himself of an occurrence in the life of such a hero, he falls into another danger. On the stage the good which is known beforehand of a man, and the good that is reported of him, have no value at all, as opposed to what the hero himself does on the stage. Indeed, the great expectations which the hearer brings with him in this case, may be prejudicial to the unbiased reception of the action.- And if the poet succeeds, as is probable in the case of popular heroes, in promoting the scenic effects through the already awakened ardor of the audience for the hero, he must credit his success to the interest which the audience brings THE DRAMATIC ACTION. 69 with it, not to the interest which the drama itself has merited. If the poet is conscientious, he will adopt only those moments from the life of the artist, poet, thinker, in which he shows himself active and suffering quite as significantly toward others as he was in his studio. It is clear that this will be the case only by accident ; it is quite as clear that in such a case it will be only an accident, if the hero bears a celebrated name. Therefore, the making use of anecdotes from the life of such great men, the meaning of which does not show itself in the action but in the non-representable activity of their laboratory, is intrinsically right undramatic. The greatness in them is non-representable ; and what is represented borrows the greatness of the hero from a moment of his life lying outside the piece. The personality of Shakespeare, Goethe, Schiller, is in this respect worse on the stage than in a novel or romance, and all the worse the more intimately their lives are known.

Of course, opinions as - to what may be represented on the stage, and what is effective, are not the same in all ages. National custom as well as the arrangement of the theatre direct the poet. We have no longer the susceptibility of the Greeks to epic narratives which are brought upon the scene by a messenger ; we have greater pleasure in what can be acted, and risk upon our stage the imitation of actions which would have appeared entirely impossible on the Athenian stage, in spite of its machines, its devices for flying and its perspective 70 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. painting,— popular tumults, collision of armies, and the like. And as a rule the later poet will be inclined to do too much rather than too little in this direction. It may happen to him rather than to the Greek, therefore, that through full elaboration of the action, the inner perturbation of the chief figures may be disproportionately restricted, and that an important transition, a portentous series of moods, remains unexpressed. A well known example of such a defect is in Prince of Homburg, the very piece in which the poet has superbly achieved one of the most difficult scenic tasks, the disposition of an army for battle and the battle itself. The prince

has taken his imprisonment light-heartedly ; when his friend, HohenzoUern, brings him the news that his death-warrant is awaiting the signature, his mood naturally becomes serious, and he determines to entreat the intercession of the. electoral princess. And in the next scene, the youn,g hero throws himself powerless, and without sel^^^ontrol, at the feet of his protectress, because, as -fie relates, he has seen on his way to her, men digging his grave by torchlight ; he begs for his life, though he may be shamefully degraded. This sudden plunge to a cowardly fear of death, does painful violence to the character of a general. It is certainly not untrue in itself, even if we unwillingly tolerate lack of self- control in a general under such circumstances. And the drama demanded the severest humiliation of the hero; just this lack of courage is the turning point THE DRAMATIC ACTION. 71

of the piece ; in his confusion he must plunge down to this, in order to redeem himself worthily in the second part of the action. It was therefore a chief task to present the abasement of a youthful heroic nature even to the fear of death, and indeed, in such a manner that the sympathy of the hearer should not be dissipated through contempt. That could happen only by an accurate exhibition of the inner perturbations, even to the bursting forth of the death anguish, which terminated in the prostration at the princess's feet—a difficult task for even powerful poetic genius, but one which must be performed. And here a rule may be mentioned, which has force for the poet as well as for the actor : it is pre- posterous to hasten over parts of the action which for any reason are necessary to the play, but have

not the merit of pleasing motives ; on the contrary, upon such passages, the highest technical art must be expended, in order to give poetic beauty to what is in itself unsuitable. Before just this kind of tasks, the artist must achieve the proud feeling that for him there are no unconquerable difficulties. Another case in which the forcing forward of the chief effect has been neglected, is the third act of Antony and Cleopatra. A defect in Shakespeare does not, indeed, originate in want of insight, nor in haste. The striking thing is that the piece lacks climax. Antony has withdrawn from Cleopatra, has been reconciled with Octavianus, and has re-established his authority. But the spectator has long ;

, 72 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

had a presentiment that he will return to Cleopatra.

> . The inner necessity of this relapse is amply motived

from the first act. Notwithstanding this, one demands

A rightly to see this momentous relapse, with its vio-

lent passions and mental disturbances ; it is the

point on which all that has gone before is suspended, and which must account for all that follows, the

degradation of Antony, even to his cowardly flight,

and his death. And yet, it is presented in only brief

sections ; the culmination of the action is divided up into little scenes, and the joining of these into one well-executed scene was the more desirable, because the important occurrence in the last half of the play, that flight of Antony from the naval battle, cannot be represented on the stage, but can be made intelligible only through the short account of the subordinate commander and the thrilling struggle of the broken-down hero which follows/

But the poet has not the task, let it be under-

stood, of representing through what is done on the

stage every individual impulse which is necessary to the inner connection of the action as actually occurring. Such a representation of accessories would rather conceal the essentials than make them impressive, by taking time from the more important it would also divide up the action into too many parts and thereby injure the effects. Upon our stage, also, many heroic accounts of events are necessary in vivid representation. Since they always produce resting places in the action, however excit- edly the declaimer may speak, the law applies to THE DRAMATIC ACTION. 73 them, that they must come in as relief from a strongly worked-up suspense. The spectator must be previously aroused by the excited emotion of the persons concerned. The length of the narration is to

be carefully calculated ; a line too much, the least unnecessary elaboration, may cause weariness. If the narrative contains individual parts of some extent, it must be divided and interspersed with short speeches of other characters, which indicate the narrator's mood; and the parts must be carefully arranged in the order of climax, both as to meaning and style. A celebrated example of excellent arrangement is the Swedish captain's story in Wal-

Icfistein. An elaborate narrative must not occur when the action is moving forward with energy and rapidity.

One variety of messenger scene is the portrayal of an occurrence thought of as behind the scenes, when the persons on the stage are represented as observers; also the presentation of an occurrence from the impressions which it has made on the characters. This kind of recital allows more easily of

dramatic excitement ; it may be almost a mere,

quiet narrative ; it may possibly occasion or increase passionate excitement on the stage. The grounds upon which the poet has something happening behind the scenes, are of various kinds. First of all, occasion is given by unavoidable incidents which, because of their nature, cannot be represented on the stage at all, or only through elaborate machinery — a conflagration, a naval bat- 74 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

tie, a popular tumult, battles of cavalry and chariot- eers — everything in which the mighty forces of nature or great multitudes of men are active in widespread commotion. The effect of such reflected

impressions may be greatly enhanced by little scenic

indications : calls from without, signals, lurid lights, thunder and lightning, the roar of cannon, and similar devices which excite the fancy, and the appro-

priateness of wWch is easily recognized by the hearer. These indications and shrewd hints of something in the distance, will be most successful

when they are used to show the doings of men ; not so favorable are the representation of the unusual

operations of nature, descriptions of landscape, all spectacles to which the spectator is not accustomed to give himself over before the stage. In such a case the designed effect may entirely fail, because the audience is accustomed to strive against attempts to produce strange illusions. This representation of mirrored impressions, the laying a part of the action behind the scene, has peculiar significance for the drama in moments when what is frightful, terrifying, or horrible is to be exhibited. If it is desired by the present-day poet that he should follow the example of the Greeks, and discreetly lay the decisive moment of a hideous deed as much as possible behind the scenes, and bring it to light only through the impressions which it makes on the minds of those concerned, then an objection must be made against this restriction in favor of the newer art; for an imposing deed is THE DRAMATIC ACTION. 75

sometimes of the greatest effect on our stage, and

is indispensable to the action. First, if the dramatically presentable individual parts of the deed

give significance to what follows ; next, if we recognize in such a deed the sudden culmination of an

inner process just perfected ; third, if only through the contemplation of the action itself the spectators may be convinced how the affair really happened, - — nowhere need we fear the effects on the stage, of death, murder, violent collision of figures, though in themselves not the highest effects of the drama. While the Greek stage was developed out of a lyric representation of passionate emotions, the German has arisen from the epic delineation of events. Both have preserved some traditions of their oldest con-

ditions ; the Greek remained just as inclined to keep in the background the moment of the deed, as the Germans rejoiced to picture fighting and rapine.

But if the Greeks avoided violent physical efforts, blows, attacks, wrestlings, overthrows, perhaps not the foresight of the poet, but the need of the actors was the ultimate reason. The Greek theatre costume was very inconvenient for violent

movements of the body ; the falling of a dying person in the cothurnus must be gradual and very

carefully managed if it would not be ridiculous. And the mask took away any possibility of representing the expression of the countenance, indispensable in the moments of highest suspense, .^schylus appears to have undertaken something also in

this direction ; and the shrewd Sophocles went just 76 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

as far as he dared. He ventured to have even Antigone dragged by an armed force from the grove of Colonos, but he did not venture, in Electra, to

have ^gisthos killed on the stage ; Orestes and Pylades must pursue him with drawn swords behind the scenes. Perhaps Sophocles perceived, as well as we, that in such a place this was a disadvantage, a restriction which was laid upon him by the leather and padding of his actors, and, too, by the religious horror which the Greeks felt for the moment of

death. Then this is one of the places in the drama where the spectator must see that the action com-

pletes itself. Even if pursued by two men, ^gisthos could either have defended himself against them or have escaped them. Through the greater ease and energy of our imitation, we are freed from such considerations; and in our pieces, numerous effects, great and small, rest on the supreme moment of action. The scene in which ,\/ y Coriolanus embraces Aufidius before the household

altar of the Volscians, receives its full significance

only through the battle scene in the first act, in which the embittered antagonists are seen to punish

each other. The contest is necessary between Prince Henry and Percy. And again in Love and bitrigue,

how indispensable, according to the premises, is the death of the two lovers on the stage. In Romeo arid Juliet, how indispensable the death of Tybalt, of Paris, and of the loving pair, before the eyes of the

spectators. Could we believe it, were Emilia Galotti stabbed by her father behind the scenes? And ;;

THE DRAMATIC ACTION. ^^

svould it be possible to dispense with the great scene

in which Caesar was murdered?

On the other hand, again, there is an entire series of great effects, when the deed itself does not

busy the eye, but is so concealed that the attend- ing circumstances stimulate the imagination, and cause the terrible to be felt through those impressions which fall into the soul of the hero. Wherever there is room to make impressive the moments

])reparatory to a deed ; wherever the deed does not enter into the sudden excitement of the hero finally, wherever it is more useful to excite horror, and hold in suspense, than sorrowfully to relax excited suspense, — the poet will do well to have the deed itself performed behind the scenes. We are indebted to such a concealment for many of the most powerful effects which have been produced at all. When in the Agajnemnoii of ^schylus, the captive Cassandra announces the individual circumstances of the murder which occurs in the house when Electra, as the death shrieks of Clytemnestra press upon the stage, cries to her brother behind the scene, "Strike once more !" — the fearful power of these effects has never been surpassed. Not less magnificent is the murdering of King Duncan in Macbeth — the delineating of the murderer's frame of mind before and after the deed. For the German stage, the suspense, the unde- fined horror, the unearthly, the exciting, produced by skilful treatment, through this concealing of momentous deeds, are especially to be esteemed in —

78 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. the part of the action tending toward climax. In the more rapid course and the more violent excitement of the second part, they will not be so easily made use of. At the last exit of the hero, they can be used only in cases where the moment of death itself is not capable of presentation on the stage, execution on the scaffold, military execution, and where the impossibility of any other solution is a matter of course, on account of the undoubtedly greater strength of the death-dealing antagonist.

An interesting example of this is the last act of Wallenstein. The gloomy figure of Buttler, the soliciting of the murderers, the drawing together of the net about the unsuspecting one, — all this is impressed upon the soul of the spectator, in a long and powerfully exciting climax ; after such a preparation, the accomplishment of the murder itself would not add intensity ; one sees the murderer press into

the sleeping room ; the creaking of the last door, the clanking of arms, the succeeding sudden silence, hold the imagination in the same unearthly suspense which colors the whole act; and the slow awakening of the fancy, the anxious expectation, and the last concealment of the deed itself, are exceedingly well adapted to what is visionary and mysterious in the inspired hero, as Schiller has conceived him. The poet has not only to exhibit, but as well to keep silence. First of all, there are certain illogical ingredients of the material, which the greatest art is not able always to manage, — this will be further treated in the discussion of dramatic material. THE DRAMATIC ACTION. 79

Then there is the repulsive, the disgusting, the hideous, all that shocks dramatic taste, which depends on the crudeness of otherwise serviceable

material ; what, in this respect may be repugnant

to art, the artist must himself feel ; it cannot be taught him. But further, the poet must continually heighten his effects from the beginning to the end of his play. The listener is not the same in every part of the performance. At the beginning of the piece, he acquiesces with readiness, as a rule, in what is offered, and with slight demands ; and as soon as the poet has shown his power by some respectable effect, and has shown his manly judgment, through his language, and a firm kind of characterization, the hearer is inclined to yield himself confidently to the poet's leading. This frame of mind lasts till toward the climax of the piece. But in the further course, the listener becomes more exacting; his capability for receiving what is new becomes less ; the effects enjoyed have been exciting more powerfully, have

in many respects afforded satisfaction ; with increas-

ing suspense, comes impatience ; with the greater number of impressions received, weariness comes more easily. With all this in view, the poet must carefully arrange every part of his action. Indeed, so far as the import of the play is concerned, he need not, with a skilful arrangement of tolerable material, be anxious about the listener's increasing interest. But he must see to it, that the performance becomes gradually greater and more impres- ;

8o FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

sive. During the first acts, in general, a light and

brief treatment may be made possible ; and here

sometimes the heavy exaction is laid on the poet, i perhaps even to moderate a great effect ; but the last acts from the climax on, require the summon-

' ing of all his resources. It is not a matter of

indifference, where a scene is placed, whether a messenger recites his narrative in the first or in the fourth act, whether an effect closes the second or the fourth act. It was wise foresight that made the conspiracy scene in Julius Ccesar so brief, in order not to prejudice the climax of the piece, and the great tent scene. Another means of heightening effects lies in the multiplicity of moods that may be aroused, and of characters which may bear forward the action. Every piece, as has been said, has a ground mood, which may be compared to a musical chord or a

color. From this controlling color, there is necessary a wealth of shadings, as well as of contrasts.

In many cases the poet does not find it essential to make this necessity apparent by cool investigation

^ for it is an unwritten law of all artistic creation, that anything discovered suggests its opposite,—the chief character, his counterpart, one scene effect,

that which contrasts with it. Among the Germans,

particularly, there is need that they fondly and carefully infuse into everything which they create, a certain totality of their feeling. Yet, during the work, the critical examination of the figures, which by natural necessity have challenged one another, will THE DRAMATIC ACTION. 8l

supply many important gaps. For in our plays,

rich in figures, it is easily possible, by means of a subordinate figure, to give a coloring which materi-

ally aids the whole. Even Sophocles is to be admired for the certainty and delicacy with which,

in every tragedy, he counterbalances the one-sidedness of some of his characters, by means of the sug- gested opposites. In Euripides, again, this feeling

for harmony is very weak. All great poets of the Germanic race, from Shakespeare to Schiller, con-

sidered all together, create, in this direction, with

admirable firmness ; and in their works we seldom

find a character which is not demanded by a coun-

terpart, but is introduced through cool deliberation,

like Parricida in William Tell. It is a peculiarity of Kleist that his supplementary characters come to

him indistinctly ; here and there arbitrariness or license violates, in the ground lines of his figures. From this internal throng of scenic contrasts in the action, there has originated what, to the Ger-

mans, is the favorite scene of tragedy — the luminous and fervid part which, as a rule, embraces the touching moments, in contrast with the thrilling moments of the chief action. These scenic contrasts, however, are produced not only through a variation of meaning, but also through a change of amplified and concise scenes, of scenes of two, and of many persons. Among the Greeks, scenes moved in a much narrower circle, both as to matter and

form. The variation is made in this way : the scenes have a peculiar, regular, recurring construction, each 82 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

according to its contents ; dialogues and messenger

scenes are interrupted by pathos scenes ; for each of these kinds there arose, in essentials, an established form. Not only sharp contrast, but the repetition of the same scenic motive, may produce a heightened effect, as well through parallelism as through fine contrarieties in things otherwise similar. In this case, the poet must give diligent care, that he lay peculiar charm in the returning motive, and that before the recurrence, he arouse suspense and enjoyment in the motive. And in this he will not be allowed to neglect the law, that on the stage, in the last part of the action, even very fine work will not easily suffice to produce heightened effects by means already used, provided the same receive a

broader elaboration. There is special danger if the performer wants the peculiar art of setting in strong contrast the repeated motive, and one that has pre-

ceded it. Shakespeare is fond of repeating a motive

to heighten effects. A good example is the heavy sleepiness of Lucius in Julius CcEsar, which in the oath scene shows the contrast in the temper of the

master and the servant, and in the tent scene is repeated almost word for word. The second sounding of the chord has to introduce the ghost here, and its soft minor tone reminds the hearer very pleasingly of that unfortunate night and Brutus's guilt. Similarly, in Romeo and Juliet, the repetition of the deed with fatal result, works as well through consonance as through contrasted treatment. Fur- THE DRAMATIC ACTION. 83

ther, in Othello, the splendid recurring variations of the same theme in the little scenes between lago

and Roderigo. But success with these effects is not always accorded to even great poets. The repetition of the weird-sister motive, in the second half

of Macbeth, is no strengthening of the effect. The ghostly resists, indeed, a more ample elaboration in the second place. A very remarkable example of

such a repetition is the repeated wooing of Richard

III., the scene at the bier, and the interview with Elizabeth Rivers.^ That the repetition stands here as a significant characterizing of Richard, and that

a strong effect is intended, is perfectly clear from the great art and full amplification of both scenes.

The second scene, also, is treated with greater fond-

ness ; the poet has made use of a technique, new to to him, but very fine ; he has treated it according to antique models, giving to speech and response

the same number of lines. And our criticism is accustomed to account for a special beauty of the

great drama from this scene. It is certainly a disadvantage on the stage. The monstrous action presses already toward the end, with a power which takes from the spectator the capability of enjoying the extended and artistic battle of words in this interview. A similar disadvantage for our specta-

tors, is the thrice-repeated casket scene in the Merchant of Venice. The dramatic movement of

the first two scenes is inconsiderable, and the ele- gance in the speeches of those choosing has not sufficient charm, Shakespeare might gladly allow 84 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. himself such rhetorical niceties, because his more constant audience found peculiar pleasure in poli^, cultured discourse.

VII.

WHAT IS TRAGIC ?

It is well known how busily the German poets since Lessing's time, have been occupied in explor- ing that mysterious property of the drama which is called the tragic. It should be the quality which

the poet's moral theory of life deposits in the piece ; and the poet should be, through moral influences, a fashioner of his time. The tragic should be an ethical force with which the poet has to fill his

action and his characters ; and in this case, there have been only diverse opinions as to the essential nature of dramatic ethical force. The expressions, tragic guilt, inner purification, poetic justice, have become convenient watchwords of criticism, ponveying, however, a different meaning to different persons. But in this all agree, that the tragic effect of the drama depends on the manner in which the poet conducts his characters through the action, portions their fate to them, and guides and terminates the struggle of their one-sided desire against opposing forces. Since the poet with freedom joins the parts of his action so as to produce unity, and since he produces this unity by setting together the individual elements of the represented events in rational, internal consistency, it is, of course, clear that the poet's representations of human freedom and dependence, THE DRAMATIC ACTION. 85 his comprehension of the general consistency of all things, his view of Providence and destiny, must be expressed in a poetic invention, which derives from the inner nature of some important personage stis- taining great relations, his deeds and his sorrows. It is further plain that it devolves on the poet to conduct this struggle to such a close as shall not shock the humanity and the reason of the hearer, but

shall satisfy it ; and that for the good effect of his drama, it is not at all a matter of indifference whether in deducing guilt from the soul of the hero, and in deriving retribution from the compelling force of the action, he shows himself a man of good judgment and just feeling. But it is quite evident that the feeling and judgment of poets have been quite unlike in different centuries, and in individual poets, cannot be graduated in the same manner. Mani- festly he who has developed in his own life a high degree of culture, a comprehensive knowledge of men, and a manly character, will, according to the view of his contemporaries, best direct the destiny

of his hero ; for what shines forth from the drama is only the reflection of the poet's own conception It cannot of the great world-relations. be taught ; it cannot be inserted into a single drama like a role or a scene. Therefore, in answer to the question, how the poet must compose his action so that it may be tragic in this sense, the advice, meant in all serious- ness, is given that he need trouble himself very little about it. He must develop in himself a capable 86 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. and worthy manhood, then go with glad heart to a subject which offers strong characters in great conflict, and leave to others the high-sounding words, guilt and purification, refining and elevating. Unset- tied must is sometimes put into bottles worthy of the purest wine. What is, in truth, dramatic will have an earnest tragic effect in a strongly moving

action if it was a ma7i who wrote it ; if not, then assuredly not. The poet's own character determines the highest effects in an elevated drama more than in any other species of art. But the error of former art theories has been that they have sought to explain from the morale or ethics of the drama the combined effect in which sonorousness of words, gesture, costume, and not much else, are concerned.

The word, tragic, is used by the poet in two

different meanings ; it denotes, first, the peculiar general effect which a successful drama of elevated character produces upon the soul of the spectator ; and, second, a definite kind of dramatic causes and effects which in certain parts of the drama are either useful or indispensable. The first is the

physiological signification of the expression ; the second, a technical denotation. To the Greeks, a certain peculiarity in the aggregate effect of the drama was well known. Aristotle has sharply observed the special influence of the dramatic effects on the life of the spectators, and has understood them to be a characteristic property

of the drama ; so that he has included them in his THE DRAMATIC ACTION. 87 celebrated definition of tragedy. This explanation,

** Tragedy is artistic remodeling of a worthy, undivided, complete event, which has magnitude," and so forth, closes with the words, ** and effects through pity and fear the purification of such passions." In another place, he explains in detail (Rhetoric, II. 8) what pity is, and how it may be awakened. Awak- ening pity is to him exhibiting the whole realm of human sorrows, circumstances, and actions, the obser-' vation of which produces what we call emotion and strong agitation. The word purification (katharsis)^ however, which as an expression of the old healing art, denoted the removal of diseased matter, and, as an expression of divine worship, denoted the purging of man by atonement from what polluted, is evi-i dently an art term adopted by him for the proper' effect of tragedy on the hearer. These peculiar effects which the critical observer perceived upon his contemporaries, are not entirely the same which the representation of a great dramatic masterpiece produces upon our audience, but they are closely

related ; and it is worth while to notice the difference. Any one who has ever observed the influence of a tragedy upon himself, must have noticed with astonishment how the emotion and perturbation caused by the excitement of the characters, joined with the mighty suspense which the continuity of the action produces, take hold upon his nerves. Far more

real life tears flow, the lips twitch easily than in the ; this pain, however, is at the same time accompanied 88 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

with intense enjoyment, while the hearer experiences immediately after the hero, the same thoughts, sorrows, calamities, with great vividness, as if they were his own. He has in the midst of the most violent excitement, the consciousness of unrestricted liberty, which at the same time raises him far above the incidents through which his capacity to receive impressions seems to be levied upon. After the

fall of the curtain, in spite of the intense strain which he has been under for hours, he will be aware of a

rebound of vital force; his eye brightens, his step is elastic, every movement firm and free. The dread followed by a feeling of security and commotion are ;

in his mental processes of the next hour, there is a

greater elevation ; in his collocation of words,

emphatic force ; the aggregate production, now his own, has raised him to a high pitch. The radiance of broader views and more powerful feeling which has come into his soul, lies like a transfiguration upon his being. This remarkable affection of body and soul, this elevation above the moods of the day, this feeling of unrestrained comfort after great agi-

tation, is exactly what, in the modern drama, corre-

sponds to Aristotle's " purification." There is no doubt that such a consequence of scenic exhibitions among the finely cultured Greeks, after a ten hours' suspense, through the most powerful effects, came

out all the more heightened and more striking. The elevating influence of the beautiful, upon

the soul, is no entirely unusual art; but the peculiar

effect which is produced by a union of pain, horror. THE DRAMATIC ACTION. 89

and pleasure, with a great, sustained effort of the fancy and the judgment, and through the perfect satisfying of our demands for a rational consistency in all things, —this is the prerogative of the art of dramatic poetry alone. The penetrating force of

this dramatic effect is, with the majority of people, greater than the force of effects produced by any

other form of art. Only music is able to make its

influence more powerfully felt upon the nerves ; but the thrill which the musical tone evokes, falls rather within the sphere of immediate emotions, which are

not transfigured into thought ; they are more rapturous, less inspired. Naturally the effects of the drama are no longer the same with us as they were in Aristotle's time. He, himself, makes that clear to us. He who knew so well that the action is the chief thing in the drama, and that Euripides composed his actions badly, yet called hint the most tragic of the poets,

that is, one who knew how to produce most powerfully the effects peculiar to a play. Upon us, however, scarcely a play of Euripides produces any general effect, however powerfully the stormy commotions of the hero's soul, in single ones of his better plays, thrill us. Whence comes this diversity of conception? Euripides was a master in represent-

ing excited passion, with too little regard for sharply defined personages and rational consistency of the action. The Greek drama arose from a union of

music and lyric poetry ; from Aristotle's time forward, it preserved something of its first youth. The 90 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

musical element remained, not in the choruses, but the rhythmical language of the hero easily ros^ to climaxes in song; and the climaxes were frequently characterized by fully elaborated pathos scenes. The aggregate effect of the old tragedy stood between that of our opera and our drama, perhaps

•still nearer the opera; it retained something of the powerful inflammatory influence of music- On the other hand, there was another effect of the ancient' tragedy, only imperfectly- developed,

which is indispensable to our tragedy. The dramatic ideas and actions of the Greeks lacked a

rational conformity to the laws of nature, that is, such a connecting of events as would be perfectly accounted for by the disposition and one-sidedness of the characters. We have become free men, we

I recognize no fate on the stage but such as proceeds

! from the nature of the hero himself. The modern poet has to prepare for the hearer the proud joy, »that the world into which he introduces him corresponds throughout to the ideal demands which the heart and judgment of the hearer set up in comparison with the events of reality. Human reason appears in the new drama, as agreeing with and identical \)f; with divine ; it remodels all that is incomprehensible in the order of nature, according to the need of our spirit and heart. This peculiarity of the action specially strengthens for the spectator of the best modern plays, beautiful transparence and joyous

elevation ; it helps to make himself for hours

stronger, nobler, freer. Here is the point in which ;

THE DRAMATIC ACTION. 91 the character of the modern poet, his frank manli- ness, exercises greater influence upon the aggregate effect than in ancient times. The Attic poet also sought this unity of the divine and the rational ; but it was very difficult for him to find it. This boldly tragical, of course, shines forth in single dramas of the ancient world. And that can be explained ; for the vital laws of poetical creation control the poet long before criticism has found rules for it ; and in his best hours, the poet may receive an inward freedom and expansion which raise him far above the restrictions of his time. Sophocles directed the character and fate of his heroes sometimes, almost in the Germanic fashion. In general, however, the Greeks did not free themselves from a servitude which seems to us, in the highest art effects, a serious defect. The epic source of their subjects was thoroughly unfavorable for the free direction of their heroes' destiny. An incomprehensible fate reached from without into their action prophecies and oracular utterances ;

influence the conclusion ; accidental misfortunes

strike the heroes ; misdeeds of parents control the destiny later generations personifications of of ; deity enter the action as friends and as enemies between what excites their rage and the punish- ments which they decree, there is, according to human judgment, no consistency, much less a rational relation. The partiality and arbitrariness with which they rule, is frightful and terrifying; and when they occasionally grant a mild reconciliation, they remain 92 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

like something foreign, not belonging here. In contrast to such cold excess of power, meek-spirited

modesty of man is the highest wisdom. Whoever means to stand firmly by himself in his own might,

falls first before a mysterious power which annihi- lates the guilty as well as the innocent. With this conception, which in its ultimate foundation was gloomy, sad, devouring, there remained to the Greek poet only the means of putting even into the characters of his fettered heroes, something that to a certain degree would account for the horrors which

they must endure. The great art of Sophocles is shown, among other things, in the way he gives coloring to his personages. But this wise disposition of characters does not always extend far enough

to establish the course of their destiny ; it remains not seldom an inadequate motive. The greatness

which the ancients produced, lay first of all in the force of passions, then in the fierceness of the struggles through which their heroes were overthrown, finally in the intensity, unfeelingness, and inexora- bleness, with which they made their characters do and suffer.

» The Greeks felt very well that it was not advisable to dismiss the spectator immediately after such effects of the efforts of the beautiful art. They therefore closed the exhibition of the day with a parody, in which they treated the serious heroes of

the tragedy with insolent jest, and whimsically imitated their struggles. The burlesque was the ;

THE DRAMATIC ACTION. 93

external means of affording the recreation which lies for us in the tragedy itself. From these considerations, the last sentence of Aristotle's definition, not indeed without limitation,

avails for our drama. For him as well as for us, the

chief effect of the drama is the disburdening of the? hearer from the sad and confining moods of the day, which come to us through wretchedness and whatever causes apprehension in the world. But when in another place, he knows how to account for this, on the ground that man needs to see himself touched and shaken, and that the powerful pacifying and satisfying of this desire gives him inward freedom,

this explanation is, indeed, not unintelligible to us;

but it accepts as the ultimate inner reason for this need pathological circumstances, where we recognize a joyous emotional activity of the hearer. The ultimate ground of every great effect of the drama lies not in the necessity of the spectator passively to receive impressions, but in his never- ceasing and irresistible desire to create and to fashion. The dramatist compels the listener to repeat his creations. The whole world of characters, of sorrow, and of destiny, the hearer must make alive in himself. While he is receiving with a high

degree of suspense, he is in most powerful, most rapid creative activity. An ardor and beatifying cheerfulness like that which the poet himself has felt, fills the hearer who repeats the poet's efforts therefore the pain with the feeling of pleasure therefore the exaltation which outlasts the con- 94 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. elusion of the piece. And this stimulation of the creative imagination is, in the new drama, penetrated with still a milder light; for closely connected with it, is an exalting sense of eternal reason in the severest fates and sorrows of man. The spectator feels and recognizes that the divinity which guides his life, even where it shatters the individual human being, acts in a benevolent fellowship with the human race ; and he feels himself creatively exalted, as united with and in accord with the great world- guiding power. So the aggregate effect of the drama, the tragic, is with us related to that of the Greek, but still no longer the same. The Greeks listened in the green youth of the human race, for the tones of the proscenium, filled with the sacred ecstacy of Dionysus ; the German looks into the world of illusion, not less affected, but as a lord of the earth. The human race has since then passed through a long history ; we have all been educated through historical science.

But more than the general effect of the drama is denoted by the word tragic. The poet of the present time, and sometimes also the public, use the word in a narrower sense. We understand by it, also, a peculiar kind of dramatic effects. When at a certain point in the action, there enters suddenly, unexpectedly, in contrast with what has preceded, something sad, sombre, frightful, that we yet immediately feel has developed from the original course of events, and is perfectly intelligible from the presuppositions of the play, this new ;

THE DRAMATIC ACTION. 95

elementis a tragic force or motive . This tragic force

must possess the three following qualities : ( ) it i

must be imj3ortant and of serious consequence to the I

hero; (2) it must occur unexpecte dly (3) it must, a to the mind of the spectator, stand in a visible chain

of accessory representation s, in rational connection / with the earlier partsof_the action^ When the conspirators have killed Caesar and, as they think, have bound Antony to themselves, Antony, by his speech stirs up against the murderers themselves the same Romans for whose freedom Brutus had committed the murder. When Romeo has married Juliet, he is placed under the necessity of killing her cousin,

Tybalt, in the duel, and is banished. WhenMary Stuart has approached Elizabeth so near that a

reconciliation of the two queen s is possible, a quarrel flames up between them, which becomes K

fataTTo'lVlary . Here the speech of Antony, the death of Tybalt, the quarrel of the queens, are

tragic forces ; their effect rests upon this, that the

spectator comprehends the ominous occurrences as K surprising, and yet inseparably connected with what' has preceded. The hearer keenly feels the speech of Antony to be a result of the wrong which the

conspirators have done Caesar ; through the relation of Antony to Caesar, and his behavior in the previous dialogue scene with the conspirators, the

speech is conceived as the necessary consequence of the sparing of Antony, and the senseless and over- hasty confidence which the murderers place in him. That Romeo must kill Tybalt, will be immediately 96 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. understood as an unavoidable consequence of the the duel with Mercutio mortal family quarrel and ;^ the quarrel of the two queens, the hearer at once understands to be the natural consequence of their pride, hatred, and former jealousy. In the same technical signification, theword tragic is also~"so metirnesused tor events in real life. The fact, for example, that Luther, that mighty champion of the freedom of conscience, became in the last half of his life an intolerant oppressor of conscience, contains, thus stated, nothing tragic. Overweening desire for rule may have developed in

Luther ; he may have become senile. But from the moment when it becomes clear to us, through a succession of accessory ideas, that this same intolerance was the necessary consequence of that very honest, disinterested struggle for truth, which accomplished the Reformation ; that this same pious fidelity with which Luther upheld his conception of the Bible against the Roman Church, brought him to defend this conception against an adverse decision ; that he would not despair when in his position outside of the church, but remained there, holding obstinately

to the letter of his writings ; from the moment, also, when we conceive of the inner connection of his intolerance with all that is good and great in his nature,—this darkening of his later life produces the effect of the tragic. Just so with Cromwell. That the Protector ruled as a tyrant, produces, in itself, nothing tragic. But that he must do it against his will, because the partisan relations THE DRAMATIC ACTION. g7 through which he had arisen, and his participation in the execution of the king, had stirred the hearts

of the conservative against him ; that the great hero from the pressure which his earlier life had laid upon him, could not wrest himself free from his office, —this makes the shadow which fell upon his life through his unlawful reign, tragic for us. That Conradin, child of the Hohenstaufens, gath- ered a horde, and was slain in Italy by his adversary,—this is not in itself dramatic, and in no sense of the word tragic. A weak youth, with slender support,-— it was in order that he should succumb.

But when it is impressed upon our souls, that the youth only followed the old line of march of his ancestors toward Italy, and that in this line of march, almost all the great princes of .his house had fallen, and that this march of an imperial race was not accidental, but rested on ancient, historical union of Germany with Italy, —then the death of Conradin appears to us specially tragic, not for himself, but as the final extinction of the greatest race of rulers of that time.

With peculiar emphasis, it must again be asserted that the tragic force must be understood in its rational causative connection with the fundamental cdiTditions of the action. For our drama, su( events as enter without Being understood, incidents the relation of which with the action is mysteriously concealed, influences the significance of which rests on superstitious notio ns^^ motives which are taken from dream-life, prophesyings, presentiments, have 98 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

merely a secondarYJmpnrtanre. If a family picture

which falls from its nail, shall portentously indicate

death and destruction ; if a dagger which was used in a crime, appears burdened with a mysterious,

evil-bringing curse, till it brings death to the murderer, —these kinds of attempts which ground the

tragic effect upon an inner connection which is incomprehensible to us, or appears unreasonable,

( are for the free race of the present day, either weak or quite intolerable. What appears to us as an g£ci-

\ / denj;, even an overwhelming one, is not appropriate

"^ for great effects on the stage. It is now several centuries since the adoption of such motives and many others, has been tried in Germany.

The Greeks, it may be remarked incidentally, were some\Yhat less fastidious in the use of these irrational forces for tragic effect. They could be

contented if the inner connection of a suddenly entering tragic force, with what had preceded, were felt in an ominous shudder. When Aristotle cites as an effective example in this direction, that a statue erected to a man, in falling down, kills him who was guilty of the man's death, we should feel

in every-day life such an accident is significant.

But in art, we should not deem it worthy of success. Sophocles understands how, with such forces, to make conspicuous a natural and intelligible connection between cause and effect so far as his fables allow ^f the s ort. ^ For example, the manner in which he explains, with realistic detail, the poison- '

THE DRAMATIC ACTION. 99

ous effect of the shirt of Nessos, which Deianeira

sends to Hercules, is remarkable. Th e tragic force, or incident, in the drama js one of many effects^__It may enter only once, as usually

^ happens; it may be used several times in the same

piece. Romeo and Juliet has three such forces : the

death of Tybalt after the marriage ; the betrothal of and Paris after the Juliet marriage night ; the death of Paris before the final catastrophe. The position

which this force takes in the piece, is not always the

same ; one point, however, is specially adapted for

it, so that the cases in which it demands another

place, can be considered as exceptions ; and it is relevant in connection with the foregoing to speak of this here, though the parts of the drama will be discussed in the following chapter.

The point forward from which the deed of the .

hero reacts upon himself, is one of the most impor- " t the play. his antin T beginning of the reaction, \ sometimes united in one scene with the cli max, has

been noted ever since there has been a dramatic art. The embarrassment of the hero and the momentous position into which he has placed himself, must be /

impressively represented ; at the same time, it is the

business of this force to produce new suspense for r the second part of the piece, a^id so much the more

as the apparent succ'ess ot tTTe hero has so far been more brilliant, and the more magnificently the scene of the climax has presented his success. Whatever

enters into the play now must have all the qual itjes 1

which have been previously explained — it must ;

loo FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. present sharp contrasts, it mu st not be accide ntal, it must be pregnant wTth consequences. Therefore it' musTlTave^Tmportance and a certain m3gnit_ude. This scene "oFthe tragic force either immediately follows the scene of the climax, like th e despair of

Juliet after Romeo's departure ; or is joined by a, connecting scene, like the speech of Antony after

Caesar's murder ; or it is coupled with the climax

scene into scenic unity, as in Mary Stuart ; or it is entirely separated from it by the close of an act, as in Love and Intrigue, where Louise's writing the letter indicates the climax, and Ferdinand's conviction of the infi delity_ofJ}ls beloved forms the tragic force. Such scenes almost always stand in the third act of our plays, sometimes less effective in the beginning of the fourth. They are not, of

course, absolutely necessary to the tragedy ; it is quite possible to bring along the increasing reaction by several strokes in gradual reinforcement. This will most frequently be the case where the catastrophe is effected by the mental processes of the hero, as in Othello.

It is worth whU^JoiLiisJnmodern times to recognize how important this entrance of the tragjc force into the action appeared to the Greeks. It was under another name exactly the same effect and it was made still more significantly prominent by the Attic critic than is necessary for us. Even_ to their trap^ed ies, this force was not indispensa ble , but it passed for one of the most beautiful and most,, effective inventions^^ Indeed, they classed this THE DRAMATIC ACTION. loi effect according to its producing a turn in the action itself or in the position of the chief characters rel-

ative to one another ; and they had for each of these cases special names, apparently expressions of the old poetic laboratory, which an accident has preserved for us in Aristotle's Poetics^

Revolution [Penpeteia), is the name given by» the Greeks to that tragic force which by the sudden intrusion of an event, unforeseen and over-j whelming but already grounded in the plan of the action, impels the volition of the hero, and with

it the action itself in a direction entirely different i from that of the beginning. Examples of such revolution scenes are the change in the prospects of Neoptolemus in Philoctetes, the announcement of the messenger and the shepherd to Jocasta and the king in Ki?ig CEdipus, the account of Hyllos to Deia- neira, concerning the effect of the shirt of Nessos, in The Trachiiiian Womefi. Through this force specially there was produced a powerful movement in

the second part of the play ; and the Athenians distinguished carefully between plays with revolu - tion and those without. Those with revolution pre- vaifed in general, being considered the better. This force of the ancient action is distinguished from the corresponding newer only in this, that it does not necessarily indicate a turning toward the disastrous, because the tragedy of the ancients did not always have a sad ending, but sometimes the sudden rever- sion to the better. The scenes claimed scarcely l^sssignificance, In which the position of the per- I02 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. sons concerned in the action was changed with relation to each other, by the unexpected revival of an old and important relation between them. These scenes of the anagnorisis, recognition scenes, it was especially, in which the agreeable relations ot the heroes became apparent in magnificent achievement. And since the Greek stage did not know our~Tove s cenes, they occupied a similar position, though good-will did not always appear in them, and sometimes even hatred flamed up. The subjects of the Greeks offered ample opportunity for such scenes. The heroes of Greek story are, almost without exception, a wandering race.^ Expedition and return, the finding of friends and enemi es unexpectedly, are among the most common features of these legends. Almost every collection of stories contains children who did not know their parents, husbands and wives, who after long separation came together again under peculiar circumstances, host and guest, who prudently sought to conceal their names and purposes. There was, therefore, in much of their material, scenes of meetings, finding the lost, reminiscences of significant past events, some of decisive importance. Not only the recognizing of former acquaintances but the recognition of a region, of an

affair having many relations, could becom e a motive for a strong movement. Such scenes afforded the old^me poet welcome opportunity for the representation of contrasts in perception and for favorite pathetic performances in which the excited feeling flowed forth in great waves. The woman who will THE DRAMATIC ACTION. I03

kill an enemy, and just before or just after the deed

recognizes him as her own son ; the son who in his mortal enemy finds again his own mother, like Ion ; the priestess who is about to offer up a stranger, and in him recognizes her brother, like Iphigenia ; the sister who mourns her dead brother, and in the bringer of the burial urn receives back again the

living ; and Odysseus's nurse who, in a beggar, finds out the home-returning master by a scar on his foot, —these are some of the numerous examples. Frequently such recognition scenes became motives for a revolution, as in the case already mentioned of the account of the messenger and the shepherd to the royal pair of Thebes. One may read in Aristotle how important the circumstances were to the Greeks through which the recognition

was brought about ; by the great philosopher, they were carefully considered and prized according to their intrinsic worth. And it is a source of satisfaction to observe that even to the Greek, no accidental external characteristic passed for a motive suitable to art, but only the internal relations of those recognizing each other, which voluntarily and characteristically for both, manifested themselves in the dialogue. Just a glimpse assures us how refined and fully developed the dramatic criticism of the Greeks was, and how painfully conscientious they were to regard in a new drama what passed for a

beautiful effect according to their theory of art. CHAPTER 11. THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA.

I. PLAY AND COUNTERPLAY.

In an action, through characters, by means of words, tones, gestures, the drama presents those soul-processes which man experiences, from the flashing up of an idea, to passionate desire and to a deed, as well as those inward emotions which are excited by his own deeds and those of others. The structure of the drama must show these two contrasted elements of the dramatic joined in a unity, efflux and influx of will-power, the accom-

plishment of a deed and its reaction on the soul, movement and counter-movement, strife and counter-strife, rising and sinking, binding and loosing. \^ In every part of the drama, both tendencies of

dramatic life appear, each incessantly challenging

the other to its best in play and counter-play ; but in general, also, the action of the drama and the

grouping of characters is, through these tendencies,

in two parts. What the drama presents is always a struggle, which, with strong perturbations of sowl, the hero wages against opposing forces. And as

104 ;

THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA. 105

the hero must be endowed with a strong life, with a certain one-sidedness, and be in embarrassment, the opposing power must be made visible in a human representative.

It is quite indifferent in favor of which of the

contending parties the greater degree of justice lies,

whether a character or his adversary is better- mannered, more favored by law, embodies more of the traditions of the time, possesses more of the

ethical spirit of the poet ; in both groups, good and evil, power and weakness, are variously mingled.

But both must be endowed with what is universally, intelligibly human. The chief hero must always

stand in strong contrast with his opponents ; the advantage which he wins for himself, must be the greater, so much the greater the more perfectly the final outcome of the struggle shows him to be van- quished. These two chief parts of the drama are firmly

united by a point of the action which lies directly in

the middle. This middle, the climax of the play, is

the most important place of the structure ; the action

rises to this ; the action falls away from this. It is now decisive for the character of the drama which of the two refractions of the dramatic light shall

have a place in the first part of the play, which shall

fall in the second part as the dominating influence whether the efflux or influx, the play or the counter-

play, maintains the first part. Either is allowed either arrangement of the structure can cite plays of the highest merit in justification of itself. And io6 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. these two ways of constructing a drama have become characteristic of individual poets and of the time in which they lived. By one dramatic arrangement, the chief person, the hero, is so introduced that his nature and his characteristics speak out unembarrassed, even to the moments when, as a consequence of external impulse or internal association of ideas, in him the beginning of a powerful feeling or volition becomes perceptible. The inner commotion, the passionate eagerness, the desire of the hero, increase ; new circumstances, stimulating or restraining, intensify his

embarrassment and his struggle ; the chief character strides victoriously forward to an unrestrained exhibition of his life, in which the full force of his feeling and his will are concentrated in a deed by which the spiritual tension is relaxed. From this point there is a turn in the action; the hero appeared up to this point in a desire, one-sided or full of consequence, working from within outward, changing by its own force the life relations in which he came upon the stage. From the climax on, what he has done reacts upon himself and gains power over him ; the external world, which he conquered in the rise of passionate conflict, now stands in the strife above him. This adverse influence becomes continually more powerful and victorious, until at last in the final catastrophe, it compels the hero to succumb to its irresistible force. The end of the piece follows this catastrophe immediately, the situation where the THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA. 107 restoration of peace and quiet after strife becomes apparent.

With this arrangement, first the inception and progress of the action are seen, then the effects of

the reaction ; the character of the first part is determined by the depth of the hero's exacting claims ; the second by the counter-claims which the violently disturbed surroundings put forward. This is the construction of Antigo?ie, of Ajax, of all of Shake- speare's great tragedies except Othello and King Lear, of The Maid of Orleafts, less surely of the double tragedy, Walle?istein. The other dramatic arrangement, on the contrary, represents the hero at the beginning, in comparative quiet, among conditions of life which suggest the influence of some external forces upon his mind. These forces, adverse influences, work with increased activity so long in the hero's soul, that at the climax, they have brought him into ominous embarrassment, from which, under a stress of passion, desire, activity, he plunges downward to the catastrophe. This construction makes use of opposing characters, in order to give motive to the strong excite-

ment of the chief character ; the relation of the chief figures to the idea of the drama is an entirely

different one ; they do not give direction in the ascending action, but are themselves directed.

Examples of this construction are King (Edifijis,

' Othello y Lear, Emilia Galotti, Clavigo, Love ana

I?itrigue. io8 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

It might appear that this second method of dramatic construction must be the more effective. Gradually, in a specially careful performance, one

sees the conflicts through which the life of the hero

is disturbed, give direction to his inward being. Just there, where the hearer demands a powerful intensifying of effects, the previously prepared

domination of the chief characters enters ; suspense and sympathy, which are more difficult to sustain in the last half of the play, are firmly fixed upon the

chief characters ; the stormy and irresistible pro-

gress downward is particularly favorable to powerful and thrilling effects. And, indeed, subjects which contain the gradual rise and growth of a portentous passion which in the end leads the hero to his destruction, are exceedingly favorable for such an action.

But this method of constructing a play is not

the most correct, dramatically ; and it is no accident, that the greatest dramas of such a character, at the tragic close, intermingle with the emotions and perturbations of the hearer, an irritating feeling which lessens the joy and recreation. For they do not specially show the hero as an active, aggressive nature, but as a receptive, suffering person, who is too much compelled by the counter-play, which strikes him from without. The greatest exercise of human power, that which carries with it the heart of the spectator most irresistibly, is, in all times, the bold individuality which sets its own inner self, without regard to consequences, over against the THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA. lo^ forces which surround it. The essential nature of

the drama is conflict and suspense ; the sooner these are evoked by means of the chief heroes themselves and given direction, the better.

It is true, the first kind of dramatic structure conceals a danger, which even by genius, is not always successfully avoided. In this, as a rule, the first part of the play, which raises the hero through regular degrees of commotion to the climax, is assured its success. But the^ second half, in which greater effects are demanded, depends mostly on the counter-play ; and this counter-play must here be grounded in more violent movement and have comparatively greater authorization. This may distract attention rather than attract it more forcibly. It must be added, that after the climax of the action, the hero must seem weaker than the counteracting figures. Moreover, on this ^count, the interest in him may be lessened. Yet in spite of this difficulty, the poet need be in no doubt, to which kind of arrangement to give the preference. His task will be greater in this arrangement; great art is required to make the last act strong. But talent and good fortune must overcome the difficulties. And the most beautiful garlands which dramatic art has to confer, fall upon the successful work. Of course the poet is dependent on his subject and material, which sometimes leaves no choice.

Therefore, one of the first questions a poet must ask, when contemplating attractive material, is ''does it come forward in the play or in the counterplay ?" no FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

It is instructive in connection with this topic, to compare the great poets. From the few plays of Sophocles which we have preserved, the majority belong to those in which the chief actor has the direction, however unfavorable the sphere of epic material was for the unrestrained self-direction of the heroes. Shakespeare, however, evinces here the highest power and art. He is the poet of characters which reach conclusions quickly. Vital force and marrow, compressed energy and the intense virility of his heroes, impel the piece in rapid movement upward, from the very opening scene. In sharp contrast with him, stands the tendency of the great German poets of the last century. They love a broad motiving, a careful grounding of the unusual. In many of their dramas, it looks as if their ;Ileroes would wait quietly in a self-controlled mood, in uncertain circumstances, if they were only let alone ; and since, to most of the heroic characters of the Germans, conscious power, firm self-confidence and quick decision are wanting, so they stand in the action, uncertain, meditating, doubting, moved rather by external relations than by claims that have no regard to consequences. It is significant of the refinement of the last century, of the culture and spiritual life of a people to whom a joyful prosperity, a public life, and a self-government, were so greatly lacking. Even Schiller, who understood so well how to excite intense passion, was fond of giving the power of direction to the ;

THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA. iii counter-players in the first half, and to the chief actors only in the second half, from the climax downward. In Love Mid Intrigue, therefore, Ferdi- nand and Louise are pushed forward by the intriguers ; and only from the scene between Ferdi- nand and the president, after the tragic force enters, Ferdinand assumes the direction till the end.

Still worse is the relation of the hero, Don Carlos, to the action ; he is kept in leading strings, not only through the ascending half, but as well through the descending half. In Mary Stuart, the heroine has the controlling influence over her portentous fate, up to the climax, the garden scene ; so far she controls the mental attitudes of her counter-players the propelling forces are, however, as the subject demanded, the intriguers and Elizabeth. Much better known, yet of less importance for the construction of the drama, is the distinction of plays, which originates in the last turn in the fate of the hero, and in the meaning of the catastrophe. The new German stage distinguishes two kinds of serious plays, tragedy and spectacle play (trauer- spiel and schauspiel^ The rigid distinction in this

sense is not old even with us ; it has been current in repertoires only since Iffland's time. And, if now, occasionally, on the stage, comedy, tragedy, and spectacle play are put in opposition as three different kinds of recitative representation, the spectacle play is no third, co-ordinate kind of dramatic creation, according to its character, but a subordinate kind of serious drama. The Attic stage did not have 112 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. the name, but it had the thing. Even in the time of iEschylus and Sophocles, a gloomy termination was by no means indispensable to the tragedy. Of seven of the extant tragedies of Sophocles, two, Ajax and Philoctetes, indeed also, in the eyes of the Athenians, CEdipus at Colofios had a mild close, which turns the fate of the hero toward the better. Even in Euripides, to whom the critics attribute a love of the sad endings, there are, out of seventeen extant plays, four, besides Alcestis, Hele?ia, Iphigenia in Tauris, Aiidromache ^ and /

correspond to our spectacle play ; in several others, the tragic ending is accidental and without motive.

And it seems, the Athenians already had the same

taste which we recognize in our spectators ; they saw most gladly such tragedies as in our sense of the word were spectacle plays, in which the hero was severely worried by fate, but rescued at length, safely bore off his hide and hair.

On the modern stage, it cannot be denied, the justification of the spectacle play has become more pronounced. We have a nobler and more liberal comprehension of human nature. We are able to delineate more charmingly, more effectively, and more accurately inner conflicts of conscience, opposing convictions. In a time in which men have debated the abolition of capital punishment, the dead at the end of a play may be more easily dispensed with. In real life, we trust to a strong human power that it will hold the duty of living very high, and expiate even serious crimes, not with death but by a THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA. 113 purer life. But this changed conception of earthly existence does not bring an advantage to the drama in every respect. It is true the fatal ending is, in the case of modern subjects, less a necessity than in the dramatic treatment of epic legends, or older historical events ; but not that the hero's at last remaining alive makes a piece a spectacle play, but that he proceeds from the strife as conqueror, or by an adjustment with his opponent, goes away reconciled. If he must be the victim at last, if he must be crushed, then the piece retains not only the character but the name of tragedy. The Prince of

Homburg is a spectacle play, Tasso is a tragedy. The drama of modern times has embraced in the circle of its subjects, a broad field which was unknown to the tragedy of the ancient Greeks,

indeed, in the main, to Shakespeare's art : the middle-class life of the present time, the conflicts of our society. No doubt, the strifes and sufferings of

modern life make a tragic treatment possible ; and

this has fallen too little to their lot ; but what is full of incident, what is quiet, what is full of scruple, connected as a rule with this species of material,

affords artistic conception full justification ; and just here it brings forward such strifes as in real life we trust to have and want to have adjusted peaceably. With the broad and popular expansion which this

treatment has won, it is proper to propose two things : first, that the laws for the construction of the spectacle play and the life of the characters are, in the main, the same as for the tragedy, and that it is 114 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. useful for the playwright to recognize these laws as found in the drama of elevated character, where every violence done them may be dangerous to the

success of the piece ; and second, that the spectacle play in which a milder adjustrnent of conflicts is necessary in the second part, has a double reason for laying motives in the first half by means of fine characterization, for the hero's stout-hearted and vigorous desire in the second half of the play.

Otherwise, it is exposed to the danger of becoming

a mere situation-piece, or intrigue-play ; in the first case, by sacrificing the strong movement of a unified action to the more easy depiction of circum-

stances and characteristic peculiarities ; in the second case, by neglecting to develop the characters, on account of the rapid chess-board performance of a restless action. The first is the tendency of the

Germans ; the second of the Latins ; both kinds of preparation of a subject are unfavorable to a digni-

fied treatment of serious conflicts ; they belong, according to their nature, to comedy, not to serious drama.

II. FIVE PARTS AND THREE CRISES OF THE DRAMA.

Through the two halves of the action which come closely together at one point, the drama possesses — if one may symbolize its arrangement by lines — a pyramidal structure. It rises from the introduction with the entrance of the exciting forces to the climax, and falls from here to the catastro- THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA. 115

phc. Between these three parts lie (the parts of) the rise and the fall. Each of these five parts may consist of a single scene, or a succession of con-

nected scenes, but the climax is usually composed

of one chief scene, ^^c^

C These parts of the drama, (a)

introduction, i^b) rise, (^c) cli-

max, [d) return or fall, (^) y^^'^-'^ hi \ff/' catastrophe, have each what is peculiar in purpose and in con-

^j struction. Between them stand Q three important scenic effects, through which the parts are separated as well as bound together. Of these three dramatic moments,

or crises, qnej^„vdliGh„JLQdi.cates . the begjnn^^ of the stirring^aclion, stands between the introduction and

the rise ; the second, the beginning of the counter- action, between the climax and the return ; the third, which must rise once more before the catastrophe, between the return and the catastrophe. They are called here the exciting moment or force, the tragic moment or force, and the moment or force oFThe last suspense. The operation of the

first IS "necessary to every play ; the second and third are good but not indispensable accessories. In the following sections, therefore, the eight component parts of the drama will be discussed in their natural order. The Tntroductio7i.— It was the custom of the ancients to communicate in a prologue, what was presupposed for the action. The prologue of Sophocles ii6 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

and also of ^schylus is a thoroughly necessary and essential part of the action, having dramatic life and connection, and corresponding exactly to our open- old stage-management signifi- ing scene ; and in the

cation of the word, it comprised that part of the action which lay before the entrance song of the

chorus. In Euripides, it is, by a careless return to the older custom, an epic messenger announcement, which a masked figure delivers to the audience, a figure who never once appears in the play, — like Aphrodite in Hyppolitus and the ghost of the slain Polydorus in Hecuba. In Shakespeare, the

prologue is entirely severed from the action ; it is

only an address of the poet ; it contains civility,

apology, and the plea for attention. Since it is no longer necessary to plead for quiet and attention, the German stage has purposely given up the prologue,

but allows it as a festive greeting which distinguishes a single representation, or as the chance caprice of a poet. In Shakespeare, as with us, the introduction has come back again into the right

place ; it is filled with dramatic movement, and has ,

i A become an organic part of the dramatic structure. \Yet, in individual cases, the newer stage has not been able to resist another temptation, to expand

the introduction to a situation scene, and set it in advance as a special prelude to the drama. Well- known examples are The Maid of Orlea?is and Kdtchen of Heilbronn, Wallensteiri s Camp, and the most beautiful of all prologues, that to Faust.

That such a severing of the opening scene is :;

THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA. 117

hazardous, will be readily granted. The poet who treats it as a separate piece, is compelled to give it

an expansion, and divide it into members which do not correspond to their inner significance. What- ever seems separated by a strong incision, becomes subject to the laws of each great dramatic unit ; it must again have an introduction, a rise, a propor- tionate climax, and a conclusion. But such presuppositions of a drama, the circumstances previous to the entrance of the moving force, are not favorable to a strongly membered movement; and the poet will, therefore, have to bring forward his persons in embellished and proportionately broad, elaborated situations. He will be obliged to give these situations in some fulness and abundance, because every separate structure must awaken and satisfy an independent interest ; and this is possible only by using sufficient time. But two difficulties arise in this first, that the time of the chief action, not too amply allotted on our stage without this, will be shortened and second, that the prelude, through its broad treatment and quiet subject matter, will probably contain a color which is so different from that of the drama, that it distracts and satisfies, instead of preparing the spectator for the chief part. It is nearly alwa3^s the convenience of the poet and the defec- tive arrangement of the material, which occasion the construction of a prelude to an acting play. No material should keep further presuppositions than such as allow of reproduction in a few short touches.

Since it is the business of the introduction of the ii8 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. drama to explain the place and time of the action, the nationality and life relations of the hero, it must at once briefly characterize the environment. Besides, the poet will have opportunity here, as in a short overture, to indicate the peculiar mood of the piece, as well as the time, the greater vehemence or quiet with which the action moves forward. The moderate movement, the mild light in Tasso, is introduced by the brilliant splendor of the princely garden, the quiet conversation of the richly attired ladies, the garlands, the adornment of the poet painter. In Mary Stuart, there is the breaking open of closets, the quarrel between Paulet and Kennedy — a good picture of the situation. In Nathaii the Wise, the excited conversation of the returning

Nathan with Daja is an excellent introduction to the dignified course of the action and to the contrasts in the inwardly disturbed characters. In Piccolomini, there are the greetings of the generals and Questenberg, an especially beautiful introduction to the gradually rising movement.

But the greatest master of fine beginnings is

Shakespeare. In Romeo and Juliet, day, an open street, brawls and the clatter of the swords of

the hostile parties ; in Hamlet, night, the startling call of the watch, the mounting of the guard, the appearance of the ghost, restless, gloomy, desperate

excitement ; in Macbeth, storm, thunder, the unearthly

witches and dreary heath ; and again in Richard III., no striking surroundings, a single man upon the stage, the old despotic evil genius, who controls the THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA. iig

entire dramatic life of the piece, himself speaking the prologue. So in each of his artistic dramas.

It may be asserted that, as a rule, it is expedient

soon after the opening scene, to strike the first chords firmly and with as much emphasis as the char-

acter of the piece will allow. Of course, Clavigo is not opened with the rattle of the drum, nor William Tell with the quarrelling of children in the quiet

life of the household ; a brief excited movement, adapted to the piece, conducts without violence to

the more quiet exposition. Occasionally this first exciting strain in Shakespeare, to whom his stage allowed greater liberty, is separated from the succeeding exposition by a scenic passage. Thus in

Hamlet, a court scene follows it ; in Macbeth, the entrance of Duncan and the news of the battle. So in Julius Ccesar, where the conference and strife between the tribunes and the plebeians form the

first strong stroke, to which the exposition, the conversation of Cassius and Brutus, and the holiday

procession of Cassar, is closely joined. Also in Alary Stuart, after the quarrel with Paulet, comes the exposition, the scene between Mary and Ken- nedy. So in William Tell, after the charming, only too melodramatic opening situation, comes the conversation of the country people. Now certainly this note, sounded at the begin-

ning, is not necessarily a loud unison of the voices

of different persons ; brief but deep emotions in the

chief characters may very well indicate the first rip- ple of the short waves which has to precede the I20 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

storms of the drama. So in Emilia Galotti, the exposition of the restless agitation of the prince at the work-table goes through the greater beating of waves in the conversation with Conti even into the scene with Marinelli, which contains the exciting force, the news of the impending marriage of Emilia. Similarly but less conveniently in Clavigo,

it goes from the conversation at Clavigo's desk, through Mar^^'s dwelling, to the beginning of the action itself, — the visit of Beaumarchais to Clavigo. Indeed, the action may arise so gradually that the quiet preserved from the beginning forms an effective background, as in Goethe's Iphigenia. If Shakespeare and the Germans of the earlier times,— Sara Sampsoji, Clavigo — have not avoided the changing of scenes in the introduction, their

example is not to be imitated on our stage. The exposition should be kept free from anything

distracting; its task, to prepare for the action, it

best accomplishes if it so proceeds that the first

short introductory chord is followed by a well-

executed scene which by a quick transition is con-

i nected with the following scene containing the

^ exciting force. Julius Ccesar, Mary Stuart, Wallen-

steiriy are excellent examples in this direction. The difficulty of giving also to the representative of the counter-play a place in the introduction,

is not insurmountable. In the arrangement of scenes, at least, the poet must feel the full mastery

of his material ; and it is generally an embarrassment of his power of imagination when this seems ,

THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA. 121 impossible to him. However, should the fitting of the counter-party into the exposition be impracticable, there is always still time enough to bring them forward in the first scenes of the involution.

Without forcing all possible cases into the same uniform mould, therefore, the poet may hold firmly to this: the construction of a regular introduction is defining keynote, 3, fini as follows: a clearly shed , scene, a short transition into the first moment of the! excited action. 'ThTExcithig Force.—The beginning of the excited action (complication) occurs at a point where, in the soul of the hero, there arises a feeling or volition

which becomes the occasion of what follows ; or where the counter-play resolves to use its lever to set the hero in motion. Manifestly, this impelling force will come forward more significantly in those plays in which the chief actor governs the first half by his

force of will ; but in any arrangement, it remains an ^ important motive force for- the action. \x\. Julius

Ccssar, this impelling force is the thought of killing Caesar, which, by the conversation with Cassius, gradually becomes fixed in the soul of Brutus. In

Othello, it comes into play after the stormy night- scene of the exposition, by means of the second conference between lago and Roderigo, with the agreement to separate the Moor and Desdemona.

In Richard III., on the contrary, it rises in the very beginning of the piece along with the exposition, and as a matured plan in the soul of the hero. In both cases, its position helps to fix the character of ;

122 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

the piece ; in Othello, where the counter-play leads at the conclusion of a long introduction ; in Richard

III., where the villain alone rules in the first scene. In Romeo a?id Juliet, this occasioning motive comes to the soul of the hero in the interview with Benvo- lio, as the determination to be present at the masked ball ; and immediately before this scene, there runs as parallel scene, the conversation between Paris and Capulet, which determines the fate of Juliet both scenic moments, in such significant juxtaposition, form together the impelling force of this drama, which has two heroes, the two lovers. In

Emilia Galotti, it sinks into the soul of the prince, as he receives the announcement of the impending

marriage of the heroine ; in Clavigo, it is the arrival

of Beaumarchais at his sister's ; in Mary Stuart, it is the confession which Mortimer makes to the queen. Scarcely will any one cherish the opinion that Faust might have become better as a regular acting

drama ; but it is quite instructive to conceive from this greatest poem of the Germans, how the laws of creation, even with the freest exercise of invention, demanded obedience to dramatic form. This poem, too, has its exciting force, the entrance of Mephis- topheles into Faust's room. What precedes is

exposition ; the dramatically animated action

includes the relations of Faust and Gretchen ; it

has its rising, and its falling half ; from the appearance of Mephistopheles, it ascends to the climax, to the scene which refers to the surrender of Gretchen

to Faust ; from there it descends to the catastrophe. THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA. 123

The unusual form of the structure lies, aside from the later episodes, only in this, that the scenes of the introduction, and of the exciting force, occupy half of the play, and that the climax is not brought out with sufficient strength. As for the rest, the piece, the scenes of which glitter like a string of pearls, has a little complete, well-ordered action, of a simple and even regular character. It is necessary only to think of the meeting with Gretchen as at the end of the first act. Shakespeare treats the inception of the animated movement with special care. If the exciting force ^ is ever too small and weak for him, as in Romeo and

Juliet, he understands how to strengthen it. There- fore, Romeo, after his conclusion to intrude upon the Capulets, must pronounce his gloomy forebod- ings before the house. In three pieces, Shakes- peare has yielded to his inclination to repeat a motive, each time with increased effect. As in the scene in Othello, "Put money in thy purse," is a variation of the introductory note, so are the weird sisters, who excite the bloody thought in Macbeth,

so is the ghost which announces the murder to j

Hamlet. What at the beginning of the piece indi- / cated tone and color, becomes the inciting force for * j the soul of the hero..

From the examples cited, it is evident that this force of the action treads the stage under very

diverse forms. It may fill a complete scene ; it may be comprised in a few words. It must not always press from without into the soul of the hero or his 124 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

adversary ; it may be, also, a thought, a wish, a resolution, which by a succession of representations may be allured from the soul of the hero himself. But it always forms the transition from the introduction to the ascending action, either entering suddenly, like Mortimer's declaration in Mary Stuarty and the rescue of Baumgarten in William Telly or gradually developing through the speeches and mental processes of the characters, like Brutus's resolve to do the murder, where in no place in the dialogue the fearful words are pronounced, but the significance of the scene is emphasized by the suspicion which Caesar, entering meantime, expresses.

Yet it is for the worker to notice, that this force seldom admits of great elaboration. Its place is at the beginning of the piece, where powerful pressure upon the hearer is neither necessary nor advisable. It has the character of a motive which gives direction and preparation, and does not offer a single resting-place. It must not be insignificant ; but it must not be so strong that, according to the feeling of the audience, it takes too much from what follows, or that the suspense which it causes, may modify, or perhaps determine, the fate of the hero. Hamlet's suspicion can not be raised to unconditional certainty by the revelation of the ghost, or the course of the piece must be entirely different. The resolution of Cassius and Brutus must not come out in distinct words, in order that Brutus's following consideration of the matter, and the administration of the oath, may seem a progress. THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA. 125

The poet will, probably, sometimes have to moderate the importance attached to this force, which has

made it too conspicuous. But he must always

bring it into operation as soon as possible ; for

i only from its introduction forward does earnest dramatic work begin.

A convenient arrangement for our stage is to give the exciting force in a temperate scene after

the introduction, and closely join to this the first following rising movement, in greater elaboration.

Mary Stuart, for example, is of this regular structure. The Rising Movement.—The action has been

I started ; the chief persons have shown what they

' are ; the interest has been awakened. Mood, passion, involution have received an impulse in a given direction. In the modern drama of three hours, they are no insignificant parts, which belong to this

ascent. Its arrangement has comparatively little significance. The following are the general rules:

If it has not been possible to accord a place in what has gone before, to the most important persons in the counter-play, or to the chief groups, a place must be made for them now, and opportunity must be given for an activity full of meaning. Such persons, too, as are of importance in the last half, must eagerly desire now to make themselves known to the

audience. Whether the ascent is made by one or several stages to the climax, depends on material and treatment. In any case, a resting place in the

action, and even in the structure of a scene, is to be :

126 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

so expressed that the dramatic moments, acts, scenes, which belong to the same division of the action, are joined together so as to produce a unified chief

•!fcene, subordinate scene, connecting scene. In Julius CcBsar, for instance, the ascent, from the moment of excitation to the climax, consists of only one stage, the conspiracy. This makes, with the preparatory scene, and the scene of the contrast

belonging to it, an attractive scene-group very beautifully constructed, even according to the demands

of our stage ; and with this group, those scenes are closely joined which are grouped about the murder- scene, the climax of the play. On the other hand,

the rising movement in Romeo and Juliet, runs through four stages to the climax. The structure of this ascending group is as follows. First stage

masked ball ; three parts, two preparatory scenes (Juliet with her mother, and nurse) (Romeo and his

companions); and one chief scene (the ball itself, consisting of one suggestion—conversation of the servants—and four forces—Capulet stirring up mat-

ters; Tybalt's rage and setting things to rights ; conversation of the lovers Juliet and the nurse ; as con-

clusion). Second stage: The garden scene ^ short preparatory scene (Benvolio and Mercutio seeking Romeo) and the great chief scene (the lovers determining upon marriage). Third stage: The marriage; four parts; first scene, Laurence and Romeo; second scene, Romeo and companions, and nurse as messenger; third scene, Juliet, and nurse as messenger; fourth scene, Laurence and the lovers, and the THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA. 127

marriage. Fourth stage : Tybalt's death ; fighting scene. Then follows the group of scenes forming the climax, beginning with Juliet's words, " Gallop apace you fiery footed steeds," and extending to Romeo's

farewell, '* It were a grief, so brief to part with thee ; farewell." In the four stages of the rise, one must notice the different structure of individual scenes.

In the masked ball, little scenes are connected in

quick succession to the close ; the garden scene is

the elaborate great scene of the lovers ; in beautiful

contrast with this, in the marriage scene-group, the accomplice, Laurence, and the nurse are kept in the foreground, the lovers are concealed. Tybalt's

death is the strong break which separates the aggre-

gate rise from the climax ; the scenes of this part have a loftier swing, a more passionate movement.

The arrangement of the piece is very careful ; the progress of both heroes and their motives are specially laid for each in every two adjoining scenes with parallel course.

This same kind of rise, slower, with less fre-

quently changing scenes, is common with the Ger- mans. In Love mid Intrigue, for example, the

exciting force of the play is the announcement of Wurm to his father that Ferdinand loves the daughter of the musician. From here the piece rises in counterplay through four stages. First stage: (the father demands the marriage with Milford) in two scenes; preparatory scene (he has the betrothal announced through Kalb); chief scene (he compels 128 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

the son to visit Milford). Second stage: (Ferdi- nand and Milford) two preparatory scenes ; great chief 'scene (the lady insists on marrying him).

Third stage : Two preparatory scenes great chief ; scene (the president will put Louise under arrest, Ferdinand resists). Fourth stage: Two scenes (plan of the president with the letter, and the plot of the villains). The climax follows this: Chief scene, the composition of the letter. This piece also has the peculiarity of having two heroes—the two lovers.

The import of the play is, it must be owned,

painful ; but the construction is, with some awk-

wardness in the order of scenes, still, on the whole, regular, and worthy of special consideration, because

it is produced far more through the correct feeling of the young poet, than through a sure technique.

As to the scenes of this rising movement, it may be said, they have to produce a progressive inten- i

sity of interest ; they must, therefore, not only evince progress in their import, but they must show an enlargement in form and treatment, and, indeed,

with variation and shading in execution ; if several

steps are necessary, the next to the last, or the last, must preserve the character of a chief scene. I M The Climax.—The climax of the drama is the

] place in the piece where the results of the rising

j movement come out strong and decisively ; it is almost always the crowning point of a great, amplified scene, enclosed by the smaller connecting scenes of the rising, and of the falling action. The poet THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA. 129

needs to use all the splendor of poetry, all the dramatic skill of his art, in order to make vividly conspicuous this middle point of his artistic creation. It has the highest significance only in those pieces in which the hero, through his own mental

processes, impels the ascending action ; in those dramas which rise by means of the counter-play, it does not indicate an important place, where this play has attained the mastery of the chief hero, and misleads him in the direction of the fall. Splendid examples are to be found in almost every one of Shakespeare's plays and in the plays of the Ger- mans. The hovel scene in Ki7ig Lear, with the play of the three deranged persons, and the judgment scene with the stool, is perhaps one of the most effective that was ever put on the stage ; and the rising action in Lear, up to the scene of this irrepressible madness, is of terrible magnificence. The' scene is also remarkable because the great poet has here used humor to intensify the horrible effect, and because this is one of the very rare places, where the audience, in spite of the awful commotion, perceives with a certain surprise that Shakespeare uses artifices to bring out the effect. Edgar is no fortunate addition to the scene. In another way, the banquet scene in Macbeth is instructive. In this tragedy, a previous scene, the night of the murder, had been so powerfully worked out, and so richly endowed with the highest dramatic poetry, that there might easily be despair as to the possibility of any further rise in the action. And yet it is effected ; ;

130 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. the murderer's struggle with the ghost, and the fearful struggles with his conscience, in the restless scene to which the social festivity and royal splendor give the most effective contrasts, are pictured with a truth, and in a wild kind of poetic frenzy, which make the hearer's heart throb and shudder. In Othello, on the other hand, the climax lies in the great scene in which lago arouses Othello's jealousy. It is slowly prepared, and is the beginning of the convulsing soul-conflict in which the hero perishes. In Clavigo, the reconciliation of Clavigo with Marie, and in Emilia Galotti, the prostration of Emilia, form the climax, concealed in both cases by the predominating counter-play. Again, in Schiller, it is powerfully developed in all plays.

This outburst of deed from the soul of the hero, or the influx of portentous impressions into the soul the first great result of a sublime struggle, or the beginning of a mortal inward conflict, — must appear inseparably connected with what goes before as well as with what follows ; it will be brought into relief through broad treatment or strong effect; but it will, as a rule, be represented in its development from the rising movement and its effect on the

environment ; therefore, the climax naturally forms the middle point of a group of forces, which, dart- ing in either direction, course upward and downward.

In the case where the climax is connected with the downward movement by a tragic force, the structure of the drama presents something peculiar, THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA. 131 through the juxtaposition of two important passages which stand in sharp contrast with each other. This tragic force must first receive attention. This beginning of the downward movement is best connected with the climax, and separated from the following forces of the counter-play to which it belongs by a division — our close of an act; and this is best brought about not immediately after the beginning of the tragic force, but by a gradual modulation of its sharp note. It is a matter of indifference whether this connection of the two great contrasted scenes is effected by uniting them into one scene, or by means of a connecting scene. A splendid example of the former is in Coriolanus. In this piece, the action rises from the exciting force (the news that war with the Volscians is inevitable) through the first ascent (fight between Coriolanus and Aufidius) to the climax, the nomi- nation of Coriolanus as consul. The tragic force,

the banishment, begins here ; what seems about to become the highest elevation of the hero, becomes

by his untamable pride just the opposite ; he is overthrown. This overthrow does not occur sud-

denly ; it is seen to perfect itself gradually on the stage — as Shakespeare loves to have it — and what is overwhelming in the result is first perceived at the close of the scene. The two points, bound together here by the rapid action, form together a powerful group of scenes of violent commotion, the whole of far-reaching and splendid effect. But, also, after the close of this double scene, the action ;

132 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

is not at once cut into ; for there is immediately joined to this, as contrast, the beautiful, dignified pathos scene of the farewell, which forms a transi-

tion to what follows ; and yet after the hero has departed, this helps to exhibit the moods of those remaining behind, as a trembling echo of the fierce excitement, before the point of repose is reached. The climax and the tragic force are still more closely united in Mary Stuart. Here, also, the beginning of the climax is sharply denoted by the monologue and the elevated lyric mood of Mary, after the style of an ancient pathos scene; and this mood scene is bound by a little connecting song to the great dialogue scene between Mary and Eliza-

beth ; but the dramatic climax reaches even into this great scene, and in this lies the transition to the ominous strife, which again in its development is set forth in minute detail. Somewhat more sharply are the climax and tragic force in Julius CcBsar separated from each other by a complete connecting scene. The group of murder scenes is followed by the elaborate scene of the conspirators' conversation with Antony — this interpolated passage of beautiful workmanship — and after this the oration scenes of Brutus and Antony and after this follow little transitions to the parts of the return. This close connection of the two important parts gives to the drama with tragic force a magnitude and expanse of the middle part, which — if the playful comparison of the lines may be carried out, ;

THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA. 133

— changes the pyramidal form into one with a double apex.

The most difficult part of the drama is the ^ ^ I of scenes in the downward movement, or, J sequence -^ as it may well be called, the return; specially in powerful plays in which the heroes are the directing force, do these dangers enter most. Up to the climax, the interest has been firmly fixed in the direction in which the chief characters are moving.

Aher the deed is consummated, a pause ensues.

Suspense must now be excited in what is new. For , this, new forces, perhaps new roles, must be intro-

duced, in which the hearer is to acquire interest.

On account of this, there is already danger in dis-j traction and in the breaking up of scenic effects.

And yet, it must be added, the hostility of the counter-party toward the hero cannot always be | easily concentrated in one person nor in one situa-

tion ; sometimes it is necessary to show how fre-

quently, now and again, it beats upon the soul of the

hero ; and in this way, in contrast with the unity

and firm advance of the first half of the play, the second may be ruptured, in many parts, restless

this is particularly the case with historical subjects,

where it is most difficult to compose the counter- party of a few characters only.

And yet the return demands a strong bringing ' out and intensifying of the scenic effects, on account of the satisfaction already accorded the hearer, and ;

on account of the greater significance of the strug- i

gle. Therefore, the first law for the construction of 134 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. this part is that the number of persons be limited as much as possible, and that the effects be comprised in great scenes. All the art of technique, all the power of invention, are necessary to insure here an advance in interest. One thing more. This part of the drama specially lays claims upon the character of the poet.

Fate wins control over the hero ; his battles move toward a momentous close, which affects his whole life. There is no longer time to secure effects by means of little artifices, careful elaboration, beautiful details, neat motives. The essence of the whole, idea and conduct of the action, comes forward powerfully ; the audience understands the connection of events, sees the ultimate purpose

of the poet ; he must now exert himself for the highest effects ; he begins, testing every step in the midst of his interest, to contribute to this work from the mass of his knowledge, of his spiritual affinities, and of what meets the wants of his own nature. Every error in construction, every lack in characterization, will now be keenly felt. Therefore

the second rule is valuable for this part ; only great strokes, great effects. Even the episodes which are now ventured, must have a certain significance, a certain energy. How numerous the stages must be through which the hero's fall passes, cannot be fixed by rule, farther than that the return makes a a less number desirable than, in general, the rising movement allows. For the gradual increase of these effects, it will be useful to insert, just before ;

THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA. 135

the catastrophe, a finished scene which either shows the contending forces in the strife with the hero, in the most violent activity, or affords a clear insight into the life of the hero. The great scene, Corio-

lanus and his mother, is an example of the one case the monologue of Juliet, before taking the sleep potion, and the sleep-walking scene of Lady Mac- beth, of the other case.

TJie Force of the Final Suspense.— It is well understood that the catastrophe must not come entirely as a surprise to the audience. The more powerful the climax, the more violent the downfall of the hero, so much the more vividly must the end be felt in advance ; the less the dramatic power of the poet in the middle of the piece, the more pains will he take toward the end, and the more will he seek to make use of striking effects. Shakespeare never does this, in his regularly constructed pieces. Easily, quickly, almost carelessly, he projects the

catastrophe, without surprising, with new effects ; it is for him such a necessary consequence of the; whole previous portion of the piece, and the master is so certain to bear forward the audience with him, that he almost hastens over the necessities of the close. This talented man very correctly perceived, that it is necessary, in good time to prepare the mind of the audience for the catastrophe ; for this reason, Caesar's "ghost appears to Brutus ; for this

reason, Edmund tells the soldier he must in certain I circumstances slay Lear and Cordelia; for this reason, Romeo must, still before Juliet's tomb, slay 136 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

Paris, in order that the audience, which at this moment, no longer thinks of Tybalt's death, may

not, after all, cherish the hope that the piece will

close happily ; for this reason, must the mortal envy of Aufidius toward Coriolanus be repeatedly expressed before the great scene of the return of

the action ; and Coriolanus must utter these great words, "Thou hast lost thy son;" for this reason the king must previously discuss with Laertes the murdering of Hamlet by means of a poisoned

rapier. Notwithstanding all this, it is sometimes hazardous to hasten to the end without interruption. Just at the time when the weight of an evil destiny has already long burdened the hero, for

whom the active sympathy of the audience is hop- ing relief, although rational consideration makes the inherent necessity of his destruction very evi-

dent, — in such a case, it is an old, unpretentious poetic device, to give the audience for a few

moments a prospect of relief. This is done by f

means of a new, slight suspense ; a slight hindrance, j a distant possibility of a happy release, is thrown in the way of the already indicated direction of the end. Brutus must explain that he considers it cowardly to kill one's self ; the dying Edmund f must revoke the command to kill Lear; Friar

Laurence may still enter before the moment when Romeo kills himself; Coriolanus may yet be acquitted by the judges ; Macbeth is still invul- nerable from any man born of woman, even when

Burnam Wood is approaching his castle ; even Rich- THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA. 137 ard III. receives the news that Richmond's fleet is shattered and dispersed by the storm. The use of this artifice is old ; Sophocles used it to good purpose in Antigone ; Creon is softened, and revokes the death sentence of Antigone ; if it has gone so far with her as he commanded, yet she may be saved. It is worthy of note that the Greeks looked upon this fine stroke far differently from the way we regard it.

Yet it requires a fine sensibility to make good use of this force. It must not be insignificant or it will not have the desired effect; it must be made to grow out of the action and out of the character of the persons; it must not come out so prominent that it essentially changes the relative position of the parties. Above the rising possibility, the spectator must always perceive the downward compelling force of what has preceded. The Catastrophe. —The catastrophe of the drama is the closing action ; it is what the ancient stage called the exodus. In it the embarrassment of the chief characters is relieved through a great deed. The more profound the strife which has gone forward in the hero's soul, the more noble its purpose has been, so much more logical will the destruction of the succumbing hero be. And the warning must be given here, that the poet should not allow himself to be misled by modern tender-heartedness, to spare the life of his hero on the stage. The drama must present an action, including within itself all its parts, excluding 138 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

all else, perfectly complete ; if the struggle of a hero has in fact, taken hold of his entire life, it is not old tradition, but inherent necessity, that the poet shall make the complete ruin of that life impressive. That to the modern mind, a life not weak, may, under certain circumstances, survive mortal conflicts, does not change anything for the drama, in this matter. As for the power and vitality of an existence which lies subsequent to the action of the piece, the innumerable reconciling and reviving circumstances which may consecrate a new life, these, the drama shall not and can not represent ; and a reference to them will never afford to the audience the satisfaction of a definite conclusion.

Concerning the end of the heroes, however, it must be said, the perception of the reasonableness and necessity of such a destruction, while reconciling, and elevating, must be vivid. This is possible only when, by the doom of the heroes, a real adjustment of conflicting forces is produced. It is necessary, in the closing words of the drama, to recall that nothing accidental, nothing happening but a single time, has been presented, but a poetic creation, which has a universally intelligible meaning.

To the more recent poets, the catastrophe is

accustomed to present difliculties. This is not a good sign. It requires unembarrassed judgment to

discover the reconciliation which is not opposed to the feeling of the audience, and yet embraces collectively the necessary results of the piece. Crude- ness and a weak sensibility offend most where the THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA. 139 entire work of the stage should find its justification and confirmation. But the catastrophe contains only the necessary consequences of the action and the characters ; whoever has borne both firmly in his soul, can have little doubt about the conclusion of his play. Indeed, since the whole construction points toward the end, a powerful genius may rather be exposed to the opposite danger of working out the end too soon, and bearing it about with him fin-

ished ; then the ending may come into contradiction with the fine gradations which the previous parts have received during the elaboration. Something of this kind is noticeable in The Prince of Hamburgh where the somnambulism at the close, corresponding to the beginning, and manifestly having a firm place in the soul of the poet, is not at all in accord with the clear tone and free treatment of the fourth and fifth acts. Similarly in Egmont, the conclusion, Clara, as freed Holland in transfiguration, can be conceived as written sooner than the last scene of Clara herself in the piece, with which this conclusion is not consistent.

For the construction of the catastrophe, the following rules are of value : First, avoid every unnecessary word, and leave no word unspoken whereby the idea of the piece can, without effort, be made clear from the nature of the characters. Further, the poet must deny himself broad elaboration of scenes ; must keep what he presents dramatically, brief, simple, free from ornament ; must give in dic-

tion and action, the best and most impressive ; must I40 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

confine the scenes with their indispensable connec- small body, with quick, pulsating life tions within a ;

must avoid, so long as the action is in progress, new or difficult stage-effects, especially the effects of masses.

/ There are many different qualities of a poetic

/ nature, which are called into operation in these eight

/ parts of the drama on which its artistic structure

/ rests. To find a good introduction and a stimula-

\ ting force which arouses the hero's soul and keeps it

in suspense, is the task of shrewdness and expe- ,

' rience ; to bring out a strong climax is specially the

business of poetic power ; to make the closing catastrophe effective requires a manly heart and an

exalted power of deliberation ; to make the return

effective is the most difficult. Here neither experience nor poetic resource, nor yet a wise, clear vision

of the poetic spirit, can guarantee success ; it

requires a union of all these properties. In addition,

it requires a good subject and some good ideas, that

is, good luck. Of the component parts discussed,

all of them, or such as are necessary, every artistic

drama of ancient or modern times is composed.

III. SOPHOCLES* CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA.

The tragedy of the Athenians still exercises its

power over the creative poet of the present ; not

only the imperishable beauty of its contents, but its

poetic form influences our poetic work ; the tragedy THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA. 141 of antiquity has essentially contributed to separate our drama from the stage productions of the middle ages, and give it a more artistic structure and more profound meaning. Therefore, before an account is given of the technical arrangement in the tragedies of Sophocles, it will be necessary to recall those peculiarities of the ancient stage, which, so far as we can judge, with their demands and limitations, controlled the Athenian poet. What is easily found elsewhere will be but briefly mentioned here. The tragedy of the old world grew out of the dithyrambic solo songs with choruses, which were used in the Dionysian spring-time festivals gradu- ; ally the speeches of individuals were introduced between the dithyrambs and choruses, and were enlarged to an action. The tragedy retained from these beginnings, the chorus, the song of single leading roles in the moments of highest excitement, the alternating songs of the actors and of the chorus. It was a natural consequence that the part of the tragedy won the mastery, and the chorus receded. In the oldest plays of ^schylus. The Persians and

TJie S2ipplia7its, the choral songs are by far the larger part. They have a beauty, a magnitude, and so powerful a dramatic movement that neither in our oratorios nor in our operas is there much that can be compared with them. The short incidental sentences interpolated, spoken by individual characters, and not lyric-musical, serve almost entirely as motives to produce new moods in the solo singer and the chorus. But already in the time of 142 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

Euripides, the chorus had stepped into the back-

ground, its connection with the developed action was loose, it sank from its position of guide and confidant of the chief characters to a quite unessential part of the drama, choral songs of one drama

were used for another ; and at last they represented nothing but the song which completed the interval between acts. But the lyric element remained fixed in the action itself. Well-planned, broadly elaborated sentimental scenes of the performers, sung and spoken, remained in important places of the action an indispensable component part of the tragedy. These pathos-scenes, the renown of the first actor, the centre of brilliance for ancient acting, contain the elements of the lyric situation in a completeness which we can no longer imitate. In them are comprised the touching effects of the tragedy. These long-winded gushings of inner feeling had so great a charm for the audience that to such scenes unity and verisimilitude of action were sacrificed by the weaker poets. But however beautiful and full the feeling sounds in them, the dramatic movement is not great. There are poetic observations upon one's own condition, supplications to the gods, feeling portrayal of peculiar relations. The first of these may perhaps be compared with the monologues of modern times, although in them the chorus sometimes represents the sympathising hearer, sometimes the hearer who responds. That extension of the old dithyrambic songs, first to oratorios, the solo-singers in which appeared THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA. 143 in festal costume with simple pantomime, then to dramas with a well-developed art of representation, was effected by means of an action which was taken almost exclusively from the realm of Hellenic heroic legend and the epic. Isolated attempts of poets to extend this realm remained, on the whole, without success. Even before ^Eschylus, a composer of oratorios had once attempted to make use of historical material ; the oldest drama of yEschylus which has been preserved for us, made use of historical material of the immediate past ; but the Greeks had, at that time, no historical writings at all, in our sense of the word. A successful attempt to put on the stage material freely invented, had in the flourishing time of the Greek tragedy little imitation. Such a restriction to a well-defined field of material was a blessing as well as a doom to the Attic stage. It confined the dramatic situations and the dramatic effects to a rather narrow circle, in which the older poets with fresh power attained the highest success, but which soon gave occasion to the later poets to seek new effects along side-lines ; and this made the decay of the drama unavoidable. Indeed, there was between the world from which the material was taken and the essential conditions of the drama, an inherent opposition which the highest skill did not suffice to conquer, and at which the talents of Euripides grew powerless. The species of poetry which before the development of the drama had made legendary subjects dear to the people, maintained a place in certain 144 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

scenes of the play. It was a popular pleasure among the Greeks to listen to public speeches, and later, to have epic poems read to them. This custom gave to the tragedy longer accounts of occurrences which were essential to the action, and these occupied more space than would be accorded to them in the later drama. For the stage, the narrative was imbued with dramatic vividness. Heralds, messengers, soothsayers, are standing roles for such

recitals ; and the scenes in which they appear have, as a rule, the same disposition. After a short intro-

duction, the informants give their narration ; then follow a few longer or shorter verses of like meas-

ure, quickly exchanged question and answer ; at last

the result of the announcement is compassed in brief words. The narrative comes in where it is most striking, in the catastrophe. The last exit of the hero is sometimes only announced. In another way, the conduct of the scenes was influenced through the great opportunity of the Attic market, the judicial proceedings. It was a passion of the people to listen to the speeches of the accuser and of the defender. The highest artistic development of Greek judicial oratory, but also the artificial manner in which it was sought to produce effects, fine sophistical rhetoric, intruded upon the Attic stage, and determined the character of the speaking scenes. These scenes, also, considered as a whole, are fashioned according to established rules. The first actor delivers a little speech ; the second answers in a speech of similar, THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA. 145

sometimes exactly equal length ; then follows a sort of rotation verses, each four answered by another

four, three by three, two by two, one by one ; then both actors resume their position and condense

what they have to say, in second speeches ; then

follows the rattle of rotation verses, till he who is to be victor, once more briefly explains his point of view. The last word, a slight preponderance in verses, turns the scale. This structure, sometimes interrupted and divided by interpolated speeches of the chorus, has not the highest dramatic movement, despite the interchange of finished oratory, and in spite of the externally strong and progressive

animation ; it is an oratorical exposition of a point

of view ; it is a contest with subtle arguments, too

oratorical for our feeling, too calculated, too artifi-

cial. One party is seldom convinced by the other.

Indeed this had still another ground ; for it is not easily allowed to an Attic hero to change his opinion on account of the orations of some one else. When there was a third role on the stage, the collo-

quy preserved the character of a dialogue ; sudden and repeated interlocking of the characters was

infrequent, and only momentary ; if the third role

entered into the colloquy, the second retreated ; the change was usually made conspicuous by the insertion of a choral line. Mass-scenes, as we understand the word, were not known on the ancient stage. The action ran through these pathos-scenes, messenger-scenes, colloquy-scenes, orations, and announcements of official persons to the chorus. If 146 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. one adds to these the revolution-scenes, and the recognition-scenes, the aggregate contents of the piece will be found arranged according to the forms prescribed by the craft. The endowment of the poets is preserved for us in the way they knew how to give animation to these forms. Sophocles is greatest ; and for this reason, what is constant in his works is most varied and, as it were, concealed. In another way, the construction of the drama was modified through the peculiar circumstances under which its production took place. The Attic tragedies were presented in the flourishing time of Athens, on the days of the Dionysian festivals. At these festivals the poet contested with his rivals, not as author of the dramas ; but when he did not also appear himself as actor, he appeared as manager or director. As such, he was united with his actors and the leader of the chorus in a partnership. To each poet, a day was allotted. On this day he must produce four plays, the last being, as a rule, a burlesque-play. It may be wondered which was the most astonishing, the creative power of the poet, or the endurance of the audience. If we conceive of a burlesque-play added to the trilogy of ^schylus, and estimate the time required for the performance according to the experience of our stage, and take into account the slowness with which it must be delivered, because of the peculiar acoustics of the great hall, and the necessity of a sharp, well-marked declamation, this representation on the stage must have required, with its brief interruptions at the end THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA. 147

of pieces, at least nine hours. Three tragedies of Sophocles, together with the burlesque, must have claimed at least ten hours.^° The three serious plays were, in the earlier times, bound into one consistent action, which was taken from the same legendary source. So long as this old trilogy-form lasted, they had the nature of colossal acts, each of which brought a part of the action to a close. When Sophocles had disregarded this custom, and as contestant for the prize, put on the stage three independent, complete plays, one after another, the pieces stood worthy of confidence for their inner relations. How far a heightening of aggregate effect was secured by significant combination of ideas and action, by parallelism and contrast

of situations, we can no longer ignore ; but it follows from the nature of all dramatic representation, that the poet must have aspired to a progressive rise, a certain aggregation of the effects then possible." And as the spectators sat before the stage in the exalted mood of the holy spring-festival, so the chief actors were clothed in a festal costume. The costume of the individual roles was usually prescribed strictly according to the custom of the festival ; the actors wore masks with an aperture for the mouth, the high cothurnus on their feet, the body padded, and decked with long garments. Both sides of the stage, and the three doors in the background, through which the actors entered and made their exits, were arranged appropriately for their use in the piece. But the poet contested on his theatre day, through ; ;

148 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

four plays, with the same players, who were called prize-contestants. The older Attic oratorios had only one actor, who entered in different roles in a

different costume ; ^schylus added a second, Sopho-

cles added a third. The Attic theatre never, in its most palmy days, exceeded three solo actors. This restriction of the number of players determined the technique of the Greek tragedy, more than any other circumstance. It was, however, no restriction which any resolute will could have dispensed with. Not external reasons alone hindered an advance old tradition, the interest which the state took in the representations, and perhaps not less the circumstance, that the immense open auditorium on the Acropolis, which seated 30,000 persons, demanded a metallic quality of voice, a discipline of utterance possessed certainly by very few. To this must be

added, that at least two of the actors, the first and the second, must be ready singers, before an exact- ^ing audience with a delicate ear for music. Sopho-

cles' first actor must, during an effort of ten hours, pronounce about 1,600 lines, and sing at least six greater or less song pieces/^ This task would be great, but not inconceivable

to us. One of the most exacting of our roles is

Richard III. This includes in the printed text, 1 128 lines, of which more than 200 are usually omitted.

Our lines are shorter, there is no song, the costume

is much more convenient, the voice is of a different kind, comparatively less wearying; the effort for

gesture, on the other hand, is incomparably greater THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA. 149

on the whole, the creative work for the moment,

much more significant; there is a very different expenditure of nervous energy. For our actors to compass the task of the ancients, would present no unconquerable difficulties, but just that which presents itself to the inexperienced as an alleviation, the prolonging the work through ten hours. And if they set up in opposition to the actor's art of the ancients, with some show of justice, that their present task is a greater and higher one, it is performed not with voice alone, but with facial expression and gesture freely invented, yet they must not forget that the scantiness of Greek pantomime, which remained restricted through masks and conventional movements and attitudes, found a supplement again in a remarkably fine culture in dramatic enunciation. Old witnesses teach us that a single false tone, a single incorrect accent, a single hiatus in a line, could arouse the universal ill-will of the audience against

the player, and rob him of his victory ; that the great actor was passionately admired, and that the

Athenians, on account of the actor's art, would neglect politics and the prosecution of war. One must certainly not put a low value on the independent,

creative work of the Hellenic actor ; for we do not at all know how creatively his soul worked in the usual inflections of dramatic delivery. Among these three actors, all the roles of the three tragedies and the burlesque were divided. In each play, the actor had, in addition to his chief role — in which, according to custom, he wore the I50 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. festal costume — subordinate parts corresponding to his character, or for which he could be spared. But even in this matter the poet was not allowed full liberty. The personality of the actor on the stage was not so completely forgotten in his role, by his audience, as is the case with us. He remained in the consciousness of the Athenian, in spite of his various masks and changes of costume, always more the genial person performing, than the player who sought to hide himself entirely in the character of his role. And so in this respect, even at the time of Sophocles, the representation on the stage was more like an oratorio or the reading aloud of a piece, with parts assigned, than like our production on the stage. This is an important circumstance. The effects of the tragedy were not, for this reason, injured, but somewhat differently colored.

The first player was, therefore, made somewhat significantly conspicuous on the stage. To him belongs the middle door of the background — "the royal" — for his entrances and exits; he played the most distinguished persons, and the strongest characters. It would have been against his professional dignity to represent on the stage, anyone who allowed himself to be influenced or led by any other ; character in the piece — the gods excepted. He specially was the player of pathetic parts, the singer and hero, of course for both masculine and feminine roles ; his role alone gave the piece its name, in case ;

THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA. 151

he was the controlling spirit, in the action ; otherwise the name of the piece was taken from the costume and character of the chorus. Next him stood the second contestant, as his attendant and asso-

ciate ; over against him stood the third, a less esteemed actor, as character player, intriguer, representative of the counter-play. This appointment was strictly adhered to by Sophocles, in the preparation and distribution of parts. There were in his plays, the chief hero, his attendant, and his adversary. But the subordinate parts, also, which each of them must undertake, and which corresponded to each of the chief roles, were, so far as was at all possible, distributed according to their relations to the chief roles. The chief actor, himself, took the part of his representative and com- panion in sentiment ; the parts 'of friends and retainers, so far as possible, the second player took the third, or adversary, took the parts of strangers,

enemies, opposing parties ; and in addition to these, sometimes with the second, he assumed further accessory roles.

From all this there originated a peculiar kind of stage effects, which we might call inartistic, but which had for the Attic poet, and the Attic stage, not a little significance. The next duty of the actor was specially to indicate every one of the roles he assumed in a piece, by a different mask, a different tone of voice, a different carriage, and different gestures. And we recognize that here, too, there was much that had conformed to custom, and become 152 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

established ; for example, in the make-up and delivery of a messenger, in the step, bearing, gesture of young women, and of old women. But a second peculiarity of this established distribution of parts was that what was constant in the actor, became apparent in his individual parts, and was felt by the audience as something proper to himself, and effective. The actor on the Attic stage became an ideal unity which held its roles together. Above the illusion that different persons were speaking, the feeling remained to the hearer, that they were one and the same ; and this circumstance the poet used for peculiar dramatic effects. When Antigone was led away to death, the whole excited soul of Tiresias rang behind the tone of voice in which his threat was made to Creon ; the same tone, the same spiritual nature in all tHe words of the messenger who announced the sad end of Antigone and of Haemon, again touched the spirit of the audience. Antigone, after she had gone away to death, came continually back to the stage. By this means there arose, sometimes during the performance, a climax of tragic effects, where we, in reading, notice a bathos. When in Electra, the same actor presents Orestes and Cly- temnestra, son and mother, murderer and victim, the same quality of voice suggests the blood relation to the audience, the same cold determination and cutting sharpness of tone—it was the role of the third kinship the natures actor—suggests the inner of two ; but this sameness moderated, perhaps, the horror which the fearful action of the play produced. THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA. 153

When, in Ajax, the hero of the piece kills himself at the climax, this must have been, in the eyes of the Greeks, a danger to the effect of the play, not because this circumstance in this case affected the unity of the action, but probably put too much of the weight toward the beginning. But Vv^hen, immediately afterwards, from the mask of Teucros, the

same honest, true-hearted nature still rang in the voice, only more youthful, fresher, unbroken, the Athenian not only felt with satisfaction the blood relation, but the soul of Ajax took a lively part in the struggle continued about his grave. Particu- larly attractive is the way Sophocles makes use of this means—of course, not he alone,—to present effectively, in the catastrophe, the ruin of a chief character, which can only be announced. In each of the four pieces, which contain the very conspicuous role of a messenger in the catastrophe (in the TracJiinian

Women it is the nurse) the actor who has played the part of the hero whose death is announced, became himself the messenger, who related the affecting circumstances of the death, sometimes in a won-

derfully animated speech ; to the Athenians, in such a case, the voice of the departed came back from Hades, and pierced their souls—the voice of CEdi- pus at Colonos, of Jocasta, of Antigone, of Deia- neira. In Philoctetes, the return of the same actor in various roles is most peculiarly prized for dramatic effects, —of this there will be a discussion later on.^^

Such a heightening of the effect through a les- 154 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. sening of the scenic illusion, is foreign to our stage, but not unheard of. A similar effect depends on the representation of women's parts by men, which Goethe saw in Rome. This peculiarity of the Attic stage gave the poet some liberties in the structure of the action, which we no longer allow. The first hero could be spared from his chief role during longer parts of the play —as in Afitigone and Ajax. When, in the Trachi- nian Women^ the chief hero, Hercules, does not enter at all till the last scene, yet he has been effective through his representatives from the beginning forward. The maid of the prologue, who refers to the absent Hercules, Lichas, his herald, who gives accounts of him, speak with the subdued voice of the hero. And this keeping back of the hero was frequently necessary to the poet as a prudent aid in concealing the indulgence which, before all others, the first actor must claim for himself. The almost superhuman effort of a day's acting could be endured only when the same actor did not have the longest and most exacting groups of roles in all three tragedies. The chief role among the Greeks, remained that of the protagonist, who had the dignity and the

pathos requiring great effort, even if to this part, perhaps, only a single scene was given. But the poet was compelled, in individual pieces of the festival occasion, to give to the second and third actors what we call the chief parts, the most comprehensive

parts ; for he must be considerate enough to make THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA. 155

a somewhat even distribution of the lines of the three tragedies, among his three contestants." The plays of Sophocles which have been preserved, are distinguished more by the character of their action than by their construction,, from the Germanic drama. The section of the legend, which Sophocles used for the action of his piece, had peculiar presuppositions. His plays, aS a whole, represent the restoration of an already disturbed

order, revenge, penance, adjustment ; what is supposed to have preceded is also the direst disturbance, confusion, crime. The drama of the Germans, considered in general, had for its premises, a certain if insufficient order and rest, against which the person of the hero arose, producing disturbance, confusion, crime, until he was subdued by counteracting forces, and a new order was restored. The action of Sopho- cles began somewhat later than our climax. A youth had in ignorance slain his father, had married his mother; this is the premise — how this already accomplished, unholy deed, this irreparable wrong comes to light, is the play. A sister places her happiness in the hope that a young brother in a foreign land will take vengeance upon the mother for the murder of the father. How she mourns and hopes, is terrified at the false news of his death, is made happy by his arrival, and learns about the avenging deed — this is the play. Everything of misfortune, of atrocity, of the guilt, of the horrible revenge, which preceded, yes, the horrible deed itself, is represented through the reflections that fall 156 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. upon the soul of a woman, the sister of the avenger, the daughter of the murderess and of the murdered man. An unfortunate prince, driven from his home, gratefully communicates to the hospitable city which receives him the secret blessing which, according to an oracle, hangs over the place of his burial. A virgin, contrary to the command of the prince, buries her brother, who lies slain on the

field ; she is therefore sentenced to death, and involves the son and the wife of the inexorable judge with herself in destruction. To a wandering hero, there is sent into the foreign land, by his wife who has heard of his infidelity, and wishes to regain his love, a magic garment which consumes his body ; on account of her grief at this, the wife kills herself and has her body burned.^*^ A hero, who through a mad delusion has slain a captured herd instead of the abhorred princes of his people, kills

himself for shame ; but his associates achieve for him an honorable burial. A hero, who on account of an obstinate disease of his army, is left exposed on an un- inhabited island, is brought back, because an oracle, through those who hated him and banished him, has demanded his return as a means of restoring health to the army. What precedes the play is always a great part of what we must include in the action.''

But if from the seven plays of Sophocles which have been preserved, it is allowable to pass a guarded judgment on a hundred lost plays, this treatment of myths does not seem universal THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA. 157 among the Greeks, but seems to distinguish Sopho- cles. We recognize distinctly that ^schylus in his trilogies considered longer portions of the legends — the wrong, the complication, the adjustment. Euripides sometimes exceeded the definite end piece of the legend, or with more convenience than art, announced what had preceded, in an epic prologue. In both of his best pieces, Hyppolitus and

Medea, the action is built on premises, which would also have been possible in newer pieces. This order of the action in Sophocles allowed not only the greatest excitement of passionate feel-

ing, but also a firm connection of characters ; but it excluded numerous inner changes, which are indispensable to our plays. How these monstrous premises affected the heroes, he could represent with a mastery now unattainable ; but there were given most unusual circumstances, through which the heroes were influenced. The secret and ecstatic struggles of the inner man, v/hich impel from a comparative quiet, to passion and deed, despair and the stings of conscience, and again the violent changes which are produced in the sentiment and character of the hero himself through an awful deed, the stage of Sophocles did not allow to be represented. How any one gradually learned something fearful little by little, how any one conducted himself after reaching a momentous conclusion, this invited picturing; but how he struggled with the conclusion, how the terrible calamity that pressed upon him, was prepared by his own doings,— this, it ;

158 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. appears, was not dramatic for the stage of Sopho- cles. Euripides is more flexible in this, and more similar to us ; but in the eyes of his contemporaries, this was no unconditional excellence.- One of the most finished characters of our drama is Macbeth yet it may be well said, to the Athenians before the stage he would have been thoroughly intolerable, weak, unheroic ; what appears to us most human in him, and what we admire as the greatest art of the poet, his powerful conflict with himself over the awful deed, his despair, his remorse,— this would not have been allowed to the tragic hero of the Greeks. The Greeks were very sensitive to vacilla-

tions of the will ; the greatness of their heroes consisted, before all, in firmness. The first actor would scarcely have represented a character who would allow himself in any matter of consequence, to be influenced by another character in the piece. Every mental disturbance of the leading persons, even in subordinate matters, must be carefully accounted for and excused. GEdipus hesitates about seeing his son ; Theseus makes all his representations of obstinacy in vain ; Antigone must first

explain to the audience ; to listen is not to yield.

If Philoctetes had yielded to the reasonable argu- ing of the second player, he would have fallen

greatly in the regard of the audience ; he would have been no longer the strong hero. To be sure, Neoptolemus changes his relation to Philoctetes, and the audience was extremely heated over it; that he did so, however, was only a return to his ;

THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA. 159 own proper character, and he was only second player. We are inclined to consider Creon in

Antigone as a grateful part ; to the Greeks he was only a role of third rank ; to this character, the justification of pathos was entirely wanting. Just the trait that makes him appeal to us, his being convulsed and entirely unstrung by Tiresias, — that artifice of the poet to bring a new suspense into the action — this lessened to the Greeks the interest in the character. And that the same trait in the family and in the play comes out once more, that Haemon, too, will kill his father only after the messenger's announcement, but then kills himself — for us a very characteristic and human trait — Attic criticism seems to have established as a reproach against the poet, who brought forward such undignified instability twice in one tragedy. If ever the conversion of one character to the point of view of another is accomplished, it does not occur — except in the catastrophe of Ajax— during the scene in which the parties fight each other w^ith long or short series of

lines ; but the change is laid behind the scenes ; the convert comes entirely altered, into his new situation. The struggle of the Greek hero was egotistic his purpose ended with his life. The position of the

Germanic hero, with reference to his destiny, is therefore, very different, because to him the purpose of his existence, the moral import, his ideal consciousness, reaches far out beyond his individual life, love, honor, patriotism. The spectators bring with them to the Germanic play, the notion that i6o FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. the heroes of the stage are not there entirely for their own sake, not even specially for their own sake, but that just they, with their power of free self- direction, must serve higher purposes, let the higher which stands above them be conceived as Provi- dence, as the laws of nature, as the body politic, as the state. The annihilation of their life is not ruin, in the same sense as in the ancient tragedy. In CEdipus at Colonos^ the greatness of the import took a strong hold upon the Athenians ; they felt here forcibly the humanity of a life which, beyond mere existence, and indeed by its death, rendered a high service to the universal existence. From this, too, arises the great closing effect of The Furies. Here the sufferings and fate of the individual are used as blessings to the universal. That the greatest unfortunates of the legend^CEdipus and Orestes—pay so terrible a penance for their crime, appeared to the Greeks as a new and' sublime dignifying of man upon the stage, not foreign to their life, but to their art. The undramatic climax of pity, produced by practical closing results, however useful to home and country, leaves us moderns unmoved. But it is always instructive to note that the two greatest dramatists of the Hellenes' once raised their heroes to the same theory of life* in which we are accustomed to breathe and to see the heroes of our stage. How Sophocles fashioned his characters and his situations under such constraint is remarkable. His feeling for contrasts worked with the force of a power of nature, to which he himself could not THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA. 161

afford resistHnce. Notice the malicious hardness of

Athene, in Ajax. It is called out by contrast with the humanity of Odysseus, and shows the needed contrast in color with an unscrupulous sharpness, whereby naturally the goddess comes short of herself, because she will sagaciously illuminate with

her divinity the shadowing of her nature, which is like Menelaus's. The same piece gives in every scene a good insight into the manner of his creation, which is so spontaneous, and withal so powerful in effects, so carelessly sovereign, that we easily understand how the Greeks found in it something divine. Everywhere here, one mood summons another,

one character another, exact, pure, certain ; each color, each melody, forces forward another corresponding to it. The climax of the piece is the frame of mind of Ajax after the awakening. How nobly and humanly the poet feels the nature of the man under the adventurous presuppositions of the

piece ! The warm-hearted, honest, hot-headed hero, the ennobled Berlichingen of the Greek army, had been several times churlish toward the gods ; then misfortune came upon him. The convulsing despair of a magnificent nature, which is broken by disgrace and shame, the touching concealment of his determination to die, and the restrained pathos of a warrior, who by voluntary choice performs his last act, — these were the three movements in the character of the first hero which gave the poet the three great scenes, and the requirements for the entire piece. First, as contrast with the prologue, the pic- ;

i62 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. ture of Ajax himself. Here he is still a monster, stupid as if half asleep. He is the complete opposite of the awakened Ajax, immediately the embodi- ment of shrewdness. The situation was as ridiculous on the stage as it was dismal ; the poet guarded himself, indeed, from wishing to make anything different out of it. Both counter-players must accommodate themselves to the depressing constraint. Odysseus receives a slight tinge of this ridiculous element, and Athene receives the cold, scornful hardness. It is exactly the right color, which was needed by what was being represented, a contrast developed with unscrupulous severity, created, not by cold calculation, not through uncon- scious feeling, but as a great poet creates, with a certain natural necessity, yet with perfect, free consciousness. In the same dependence upon the chief heroes, the collective roles are fashioned, according to the conditions under which the Greek composed for

each of the three actors ; associate player, accessory player, counter-player. In Ajax for instance, there was the "other self" of Ajax, the true, dutiful

brother Teucros ; then, there were the second roles, his wife, the booty of his spear, Tecmessa, loving, anxious, well knowing, however, how to oppose the

hero ; and there was his friendly rival, Odysseus finally, the enemies, again three degrees of hate the goddess, the hostile partisan, and his more prudent brother, whose hatred was under control out of regard for policy. When, in the last scene, the THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA. 163 counter-player and the hostile friend of the hero were reconciled at the grave, from the compact which they made, the Athenian would recognize very distinctly the opposite of the opening scene, where the same voices had taken sides against the madman. Within the individual characters of Sophocles, also, the unusual purity and power of his feeling for harmony, and the same creation in contrasts, are admirable. He perceived here surely and with no mistake, what could be effective in them, and what was not allowable. The heroes of the epic and of the legend, resist violently, being changed into dramatic characters : they brook only a certain

measure of inner life and human freedom ; whoever will endow them with more, from him they snatch away and tear into shreds the loose web of their myths — barbarous on the stage. The wise poet of the Greeks recognizes very well the inward hardness and untamableness of the forms which he must transform into characters. Therefore, he takes as

little as possible from the legend itself into the drama. He finds, however, a very simple and com-

prehensible outline of its essential characteristic as

his action needs it, and he always makes the best of this one peculiarity of character, with peculiar strictness and logical congruity. This determining

trait is always one impelling toward a deed : pride, hate, connubial sense of duty, official zeal. And the poet conducts his characters in no way like a mild

commander ; he exacts from them according to ;

i64 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. their disposition, what is boldest, and most extreme he is so insatiably hard and pitiless, that to us weaker beings, a feeling of real horror comes, on account of the fearful one-sidedness into which he has them the Athenians compared such plunge ; and that even effects to the loosing of bloodhounds. The defiant sisterly love of Antigone, the mortally wounded pride of Ajax, the exasperation of the tormented Philoctetes, the hatred of Electra, are forced out in austere and progressive intensity, and placed in the deadly conflict. But over against this groundwork of the characters, he perceives again with marvellous beauty and certainty just the corresponding gentle and friendly quality which is possible to his characters, with their peculiar harshness. Again, this contrast appears in his heroes, with the power of the required

complementary color ; and this second and opposite quality of his persons — almost always the gentle, cordial, touching side of their nature, love opposed to hate, fidelity to friends opposed to treachery, honest candor against sheer irascibility — is almost always adorned with the most beautiful poetry, the most delicate brilliancy of color. Ajax, who would have slain his foes in mad hatred, displays an unusual strength of family affection, true-hearted, deep, intense love toward his companions, toward the distant brother, toward the child, toward his wife; Electra, who almost lives upon her hatred of her mother, clings with the gentlest expressions of tenderness about the neck of her longed-for brother. THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA. 165

The tortured Philoctetes, crying out in pain and anguish, demanding the sword that he may hew asunder his own joints, looks up, helpless, grateful, and resigned, to the benevolent youth who can behold the odious suffering and give no expression to his horror. Only the chief characters exhibit this un- folding of their powerfully conceived unity, in two

opposite directions ; the accessory persons, as a rule

show only the required supplementary colors ; Creon thrice, Odysseus twice, both in each of their pieces

differently shaded off, Ismene, Theseus, Orestes. Such a uniting of two contrast colors in one chief character was possible to the Greek only because he was a great poet and student of human

nature ; that is, because his creative soul perceived distinctly the deepest roots of a human existence, from which these two opposite leaves of his characters grew. And this exact observation of the germ

of every human life is the highest prerogative of the poet, which causes the simple bringing out of two opposite colors in character to produce the beautiful appearance of wealth, of fulness, of sym-

metry. It is an enchanting illusion, in which he

knows how to place his hearers ; it gives his pictures

exactly the kind of life which has been possible in his material on the stage. With us, the characters of the great poets show much more artistic fashioning than those ancient ones, which grew up so simply, leaf opposite to leaf, from the root ; Hamlet, Faust, Romeo, Wallenstein, cannot be traced back to so simple an original form. And they are, of i66 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

course, the evidence of a higher degree of development of humanity. But on this account, the figures of Sophocles are not at all less admirable and enchanting. For he knows how to design them with simplicity, but with a nobility of sentiment, and fashion them in a beauty and grandeur of outline that excited astonishment even in ancient times. Nowhere are loftiness and power wanting in either

chief characters or accessory characters ; every-

where is seen from their bearing, the insight and unrestrained master-power of a great poet nature. ^schylus embodied in the characters of the stage a single characteristic feature, which made

their individuality intelligible ; in Prometheus, Cly- temnestra, Agamemnon, Sophocles intensified his great roles, while he attributed to them two apparently contradictory qualities, which were in reality

requisite and supplementary ; when Euripides went further, and created pictures imitating reality, which were like living beings, the threads of the old material flew asunder, and curled up like the dyed cloth of Deianeira in the sunlight. This same joyousness, and the sure perception of contrasts, allowed the poet, Sophocles, also to overcome the difficulty which his choice of fables prepared for him. The numerous and monstrous premises of his plot seemed peculiarly unfavorable to a powerful action proceeding from the hero himself. In the last hours of its calamity, tt appears, the heroes are almost always suffering, not freely acting. But the greater the pressure the poet THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA. 167

lays upon them from without, so much higher the

power becomes with which they battle against it.

Whatever already in the first ascending half of the piece, fate or a strange power works against the hero, he does not appear as receiving it, but as thrusting his whole being emphatically against it.

He is, in truth, impelled ; but he appears in a distinctive manner to be the impelling force ; thus CEdipus, Electra, even Philoctetes, taken together, are efficient natures, which rage, impel, advance. If any one ever stood in a position of defence dangerous to a play, it was poor King CEdipus. Let it be observed how Sophocles represents him, as far as the climax, fighting in increasing excitement, against opposition ; the more dismal his cause becomes to himself, so much the more violently does he beat against his environment. These are some of the conditions under which the poet created his action. If the plays of Sopho- cles together with the chorus, claimed about the same time as our plays, on the average, require, yet the action is much shorter than ours. For aside from the chorus, and from the lyric and epic parts inserted, the whole design of the scenes is greater and, on the whole, broader. The action, according to our way of presenting, would scarcely occupy half an evening. The transitions from scene to scene are short, but accurately motived ; entrance and exit of new roles are explained, little connecting parts between elaborate scenes are infrequent.

The number of divisions was not uniform ; only in i68 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. the later time of the ancient tragedy was the division into five acts established. The different parts of the action were separated by choral songs. Every one of such parts,—as a rule, corresponding to our finished scene—was distinguished from the one preceding it, by its meaning, but not so sharply as our acts. It appears, almost, that the single pieces of the day—not the parts of a piece—were separated by a curtain drawn across the stage. Indeed, the tableau in the beginning of QEdipus may be explained otherwise ; but since the decoration of Sophocles already plays a part in the piece—and he was as fond of referring to this as yEschylus was to his chariot and flying machine—its fastenings must have been taken from the view of the spectator before the beginning of a new piece.

Another characteristic of Sophocles, so far as it is recognizable to us, lies in the symmetrical proportions of his piece.

, The introduction and the conclusion of the old drama were set off from the rest of the structure, much more markedly than at present. The introduction was called the prologue ; embraced one appearance or more of the solo-players, before the first entrance of the chorus; contained all the essentials of the exposition; and was separated by a choral song from the rising action. The conclusion, exodus, likewise separated from the falling action by a choral song, was composed of scene-groups, carefully worked out, and included the part of the action which we moderns call the catastrophe. In Sopho- THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA. 169

cles, the prologue is, in all the plays preserved, an artfully constructed dialogue scene, with a not insignificant movement, in which two, sometimes all three, actors appear and show their relation to each other. It contains, first, the general premises of the piece, and second, what appears to be peculiar to Sophocles, a specially impressive introduction of the exciting force which shall impel the action, after the choral song.

The first choral song follows the prologue ; after this comes the action with the entrance of the first excitement. From here the action rises in two or more stages to the climax. There are in Sophocles, sometimes, very fine motives, insignificant in themselves, which occasion this ascent. The summit of the action arises mightily; for bringing out this moment, the poet uses all the splendor of color, and all the sublimest poetic fervor. And when the action allows of a broad turn, the scene of this turn, revolution, or recognition, follows not suddenly and unexpectedly, but with fine transition, and always in artistic finish. From here, the action plunges swiftly to the end, only occasionally, before the exodus, a slight pause, or level, is arranged. The catastrophe itself is com-

posed like a peculiar action ; it consists not of a single scene, but of a group of scenes,—the brilliant messenger part, the dramatic action, and sometimes lyric pathos scenes, lie in it, connected by slight transition scenes. The catastrophe has not the same power, in all the plays, nor is it treated with effects of progressive intensity. The relation of the piece ;

I70 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. to the others of the same day may, also, have controlled the work of the conclusion. The play of A?Ltigo?ie contains—besides prologue and catastrophe—five parts, of which the first three form the rising movement ; the fourth, the climax the fifth, the return. Each of these parts, separated from the others by a choral song, embraces a scene of two divisions. The idea of the piece is as follows : A maiden, who contrary to the command of the king, buries her brother, slain in a battle against his native city, is sentenced to death by the king. The king, on this account, loses his son and his con- sort, by self-inflicted death. In a dialogue scene, which affords a contrast between the heroine and her friendly helpers, the prologue explains the basis of the action, and makes an exposition of the exciting force, — the resolution of Antigone to bury her brother. The first step of the ascent is, after the introduction of Creon, the message that Polynices is secretly buried, the wrath of Creon, and his command to find the perpetrator of the deed. The second -step is the introduction of Antigone, who has been seized, the expression of her resistance to Creon, and the intrusion of Ismene, who declares that she is an accomplice of Antigone and will die with her. The third step is the entreaty of Haemon, and when Creon remains inexorable, the despair of the lover. The messenger scene has been followed so far by dialogue scenes, continually increasing in excitement. The pathos scene of Antigone, song and recitation, forms the climax. This is followed THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA. 171

by Creon's command to lead her away to death. From this point the action falls rapidly. The pro- phet, Tiresias, announces calamity awaiting Creon,

and punishes his obstinacy. Creon is softened, and gives orders that Antigone be released from the burial

vault where she is imprisoned. And now begins the

catastrophe, in a great scene-group ; announcement by messenger of Antigone's death, and Haemon's, the despairing departure of Eurydice, the lament of Creon, another message, announcing the death of Eurydice, and the concluding lament of Creon. The

continuance of Antigone herself is the seer, Tiresias,

and the messenger of the catastrophe ; the friendly

accessory players are Ismene and Hsemon ; the coun-

ter-player, with less power and with no pathos, is

Creon. Eurydice is only an assisting role.

The most artistic play of Sophocles is King (Edi- pus. It possesses all the fine inventions of the Attic drama, besides variations in songs and chorus, revolution scene, recognition scene, pathos scene, finished announcement of the messenger at the close. The

action is governed by the counter-play, has a short ascent, comparatively weak climax, and a long descent. The prologue brings out all three actors, and announces, besides the presupposed conditions, Thebes under CEdipus during a plague, the exciting force, an oracular utterance,—that Laius's murder shall be avenged, and with this the city shall be delivered from the pestilence. From here the action rises by two steps. First, Tiresias, called by CEdi-

pus, hesitates to interpret the oracle ; rendered sus- 172 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

picious by the violent Gidipus, he hints in ambiguous, enigmatical terms, at the mysterious murderer, and departs in wrath. Second step, strife of CEdi-

pus with Creon, separated by Jocasta. After this,

climax ; interview of CEdipus and Jocasta. Jocasta's account of the death of Laius, and CEdipus's words, **0 woman, how, at your words, a sudden terror seizes me !" are the highest point of the action. Up to this passage, CEdipus has summoned up a violent

resistance to the crowding conjectures ; although he has been gradually growing anxious, now the feeling of an infinite danger falls upon his soul. His role

is the conflict between defiant self-consciousness and

unfathomable self-contempt ; in this place the first ends, the second begins. From here the action goes again in two steps downward, with magnificent

execution ; the suspense is increased by the counter- play of Jocasta ; for what gives her the fearful certainty once more deceive QEdipiis ; the. effects of the recognitions are here masterfully treated. The catastrophe has three divisions, messenger scene, pathos scene, closing with a soft and reconciling note. On the other hand, Electra has a very simple construction. It consists — besides prologue and catastrophe — of two stages of the ascent and two of the fall ; of these, the two standing nearest the climax are united with this into a great scene-group, which makes specially conspicuous the middle point of the play. The play contains not only the strongest dramatic effect which we have received from Soph- THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA. 173 ocles, but it is also, for other reasons, very instructive, because in comparing it with the. Libatiofi Pourers of ifischylus and the Electra of Euripides, which treat the same material, we recognize distinctly how the poets prepared for themselves, one after another, the celebrated legend. In Sophocles, Orestes, the central point of two pieces in ^schylus's trilogy,

is treated entirely as an accessory figure ; he performs the monstrous deed of vengeance by command of and as the tool of Apollo, deliberate, composed, with no trace of doubt or vacillation, like a warrior who has set out upon a dangerous

undertaking ; and only the catastrophe represents this chief part of the old subject dramatically.

What the piece presents is the mental perturbations of an extremely energetic and magnificent female character, but shaped for the requirements of the stage in a most striking manner, by changes in feeling, through will and deed. In the prologue, Orestes and his warden give the introduction and the exposition of the exciting force (arrival of the avengers), which works at first in the action as a dream and presentiment of Clytemnestra. The first stage of the

rising action follows this : Electra receives from Chrysothemis the news that she, the ever-complain- ing one, will be put into prison ; she persuades Chrysothemis not to pour upon the grave of the murdered father the expiating libation which the mother has sent. Second stage : Conflict of Electra

and Clytemnestra, then climax ; the warden brings

the false report of the death of Or-estes ; different 174 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. effect of this news on the two women pathos scene ; of Electra added to this, the first step of the return. Chrysothemis returns joyfully from her father's grave, announces that she found a strange

lock of hair, as a pious benediction there ; a friend must be near. Electra no longer believes the good news, challenges the sister to unite with herself and kill ^gisthos, rages against the resisting Chryso- themis, and resolves to perform the deed alone.

Second stage : Orestes as a stranger, with the urn containing Orestes's ashes ; mourning of Electra, and recognition scene of enrapturing beauty. The exodus contains the representation of the avenging deed, first in the fearful mental convulsions of Elec- tra, then the entrance of ^gisthos and his death.

What is contained in (Edipus at Colo?ws appears, if one considers the idea of the piece, extremely unfavorable for dramatic treatment. That an old man, wandering about the country, should bestow the blessing which, according to an oracle, was to hang over his grave, not upon his ungrateful native city, but upon hospitable strangers — such a subject seems to the casual patriotic feeling of an audience, rather offensive. And yet Sophocles has understood how to charge even this with suspense, progressive elevation, passionate strife between hatred and love. But the piece has a peculiarity of construction. The prologue is expanded into a greater whole, which in its extreme compass corresponds

to the catastrophe ; it consists of two parts, each composed of three little scenes, connected by a ;

THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA. 175 pathetic moment of alternating song between the solo players and the chorus, which enters at this unusually early point. The first part of the prologue contains the exposition, the second scene the exciting force — the news which Ismene brings the venerable GEdipus, that he is pursued by those of his native city, Thebes. From here the action rises through a single stage — Theseus, lord of the land, appears, offers his protection — to the climax, a great conflict scene with powerful movement. Creon enters, drags away the daughters by force, threatening CEdipus himself with violence, in order

that he shall return home ; but Theseus maintains his protecting power and sends Creon away. Here- upon follows the return action, in two stages : The daughters, rescued by Theseus, are brought back to the old man ; Polynices, for his own selfish ends, entreats reconciliation with his father, and his father's return. QEdipus dismisses him unrecon-

ciled ; Antigone expresses in touching words the fidelity of a .sister. Then follows the catastrophe the mysterif^us snatching away of CEdipus, a short oration scene and chorus, then grand messenger scene and concluding song. By the expansion of the prologue and the catastrophe, this piece becomes about three hundred lines longer than the other plays of this writer. The freer treatment of the permanent scene-forms, like the contents of the play, lets us perceive what we also know from old accounts, that this tragedy was one of the last works of the venerable poet. 176 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

Perhaps the earliest of the plays of Sophocles which have come down to us is The Trachi?tia?i

Women. Here, too, is something striking in construction. The prologue contains only the introduction, anxiety of the wife, Deianeira, for Hercules remaining far away from home, and the sending of the son, Hyllos, to seek the father. The exciting force lies in the piece itself, and forms the first half

of the rising action, of two parts : first, arrival of

Hercules ; second, Deianeira's discovery that the female captive slave whom her husband had sent in advance, was his mistress. Climax: In her honest heart, Deianeira resolves to send to the beloved man a love-charm which a foe whom he had slain had left her. She delivers the magic garment to the care of a herald. The falling action, in a single stage, announces her anxiety and regret at sending

the garment ; she has learned by an experiment that there is something unearthly in the magic.

The returning son tells her in heartless words, that the present has brought upon the husband a fatal illness. Here follows the catastroph^i^lso in two

parts ; first, a messenger scene which announces the

death of Deianeira ; then Hercules himself, the chief hero of the piece, is brought forward, suffering mortal pain, as after a great pathos scene, he demands of his son the burning of his body on Mount CEta. The tragedy, Ajax, contains after the prologue in three parts, a rising movement in three stages ; first, the lament and family affection of Ajax,—and THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA. 177

his determination to die ; then the veiling of his plan, out of regard for the sadness which it would cause his friends ; finally, without our perceiving a change of scene, an announcement by messenger, that to-day Ajax will not come out of his tent, and the departure of his wife and the chorus to seek the absent hero. Hereupon follows the climax—the pathos scene of Ajax and his suicide, especially distinguished by this, that the chorus has previously left the orchestra, so that the scene presents the character of a monologue. Now comes the return action in three parts ; first, the discovery of the dead man, lament of Tecmessa and of Teucros, who

now enters ; then the conflict between Teucros and Menelaus, who will forbid the burial. The catastrophe at last, an intensifying of this strife in a dialogue scene between Teucros and Agamemnon, the mediation of Odysseus, and the reconciliation.

Philoctctcs is noticeable for its particularly regular

form ; the action rises and falls in beautiful proportion. After a dialogue scene between Odysseus and Neoptolemus in the prologue has made clear the premises and the exciting force, the first part follows, the ascent, in a group of three connected

scenes ; after this come the climax and the tragic force in two scenes, of which the first is a two-part pathos scene splendidly finished ; then the third, the return action, corresponding exactly to the first, again in a group of three connected scenes. Just as perfectly, the choruses correspond to each other.

The first song is an alternating song between the 178 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

second actor and the chorus ; the third, just such an alternating song between the first actor and the chorus. Only in the middle stands a full choral song. The resolution of the chorus into a dramatically excited play in concert—not only in Philoc- tetes but in (Edipus—is not an accident. It may be concluded from the firm command of form, and the masterly conduct of the scenes, that this drama belongs to the later time of Sophocles."

Here, also, the first actor, Philoctetes, has the pathetic role. His violent agitation, represented with marvellous beauty and in rich detail, goes through a wide circle of moods, and arises in the climax, the great pathos scene of the play, with soul- convulsing power. The circumstance of horrible physical suffering, so important to the drama, and immediately following, soul-devouring mental anguish, have never been delineated so boldly and so magnificently. But the honest, embittered, obstinate man affords no opportunity to the action

itself for dramatic movement. This, therefore, is placed in the soul of the second actor, and Neop-

tolemus is leader of the action. After he has, in the prologue, not without reluctance, acceded to the

wily counsels of Odysseus, he attempts in the first part of the action to lead Philoctetes forward by deception. Philoctetes confidently leans for support upon him as the helper who promises to

bring him into his own land ; and he delivers to this helper the sacred bow. But the sight of the sick man's severe sufferings, the touching gratitude of THK CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA. 179

Philoctetcs for the humanity which is shown him, arouse the nobler feelings of the son of Achilles ; and with an inward struggle, he confesses to the sick man his purpose of taking him with his bow to the Greek army. The reproaches of the disappointed Philoctetes increase the other's remorse, and his excitement is still further augmented when Odys- seus, hastening by, has Philoctetes seized by violence. At the beginning of the catastrophe, the honesty of Neoptolemus is in strife against Odys-

seus himself ; he gives back to Philoctetes the deadly bow, summons him once more to follow to

the army ; and, as Philoctetes refuses, promises him once more what he falsely promised at the begin

ning of the play ; now his achievement must be to defy the hatred of the whole Greek army, and lead the suffering man and his ship home. Thus, through the transformations in the character of the hero who directs the action, this is concluded dramatically, but in direct opposition to the popular tradition ; and in order to bring the unchanging material of the piece into harmony with the dramatic life of the play, Sophocles has seized upon a device which is

nowhere else found in his plays ; he has the image of Hercules appear in the closing scene and un- settle the resolution of Philoctetes. This conclusion, according to our sense of fitness, an excrescence, is still instructive in two directions : it shows how even Sophocles was restricted by the epic rigor of a traditional myth, and how his high talent struggled against dangers upon which, shortly after his i8o FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. time, the old tragedy was to be wrecked. Further, he gives us instruction concerning the means by v/hich a wise poet might overcome the disadvantage of an apparition out of keeping, not with our feeling, but with the sensibility of his spectators. He pacified his artistic conscience first of all by previously concluding the inner dramatic movement entirely. So far as the piece plays between Neop- tolemus and Philoctetes, it is at an end. After a violent conflict, the two heroes have nobly come to a mutual agreement. But they have arrived at a point against which both the oracle and the advantage of the Grecian army offer objections. The third actor, the wily, unscrupulous statesman, Odys- seus, now represents the highest interest. With the fondness which Sophocles also elsewhere shows for even his third man, he has here specially dignified that personage. After the counter-player has in the prologue agreeably expressed the well-known character of Odysseus, the latter appears immediately in a disguise in which the spectator not only

knows in advance that the strange figure is a shrewd invention of Odysseus, but also recognizes the voice of Odysseus and his sly behavior. Three times more he appears as Odysseus in the action, in order to point to the necessity of the seizure as an advantage

of the whole ; his opposition becomes continually bolder and more emphatic. At last, in the catastrophe, shortly before the divine hero becomes visible on high, the warning voice of Odysseus

rings out ; his form, apparently protected by the THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA. i8i rock, appears in order once more to express oppo-

sition ; and this time his threatening cry is sharp and conscious of victory. When, only a short time afterwards, perhaps above the same spot where Odysseus's figure was seen for a moment, the transfigured form of Hercules is visible, and again with the voice of the third actor, makes the same demand in a mild and reconciling tone, Hercules himself appears to the spectator as an intensifying

of Odysseus ; and in this last repetition of the same command, the spectator perceived nothing new en-

tering from without ; but rather he perceived more vividly the irresistible power of the keen human intelligence which had struggled through the entire play against the impassioned confusion of the other actor. The prudence and calculation of this intensification, the spiritual unity of the three roles of the third actor, were confidently believed by the audience to be a beauty of the piece.

IV. THE GERMANIC DRAMA.

That enjoyment of exhibitions, the representation of unusual occurrences by acting on the stage, governed the beginnings of the Germanic drama, is still recognized by the works of higher art as well as by the inclination of the public, and most of all by the first attempts of our dramatic poets.

Shakespeare filled with dramatic life the old customs of a play-loving people ; from a loosely woven i82 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. narrative, he created an artistic drama. But even up to his time and that of his romantic contemporaries, there shot across nearly two thousand years some brilliant rays from the splendid time of the Attic theater. To him also, the arrangement of a piece depended on the construction of his stage. This had, even in his later time, scarcely side curtains and a simple scaffolding in the rear, which formed a smaller raised stage, with pillars at the sides, and a balcony above, from which steps led to the front stage below. The chief stage had no drop curtain; the divisions of the piece could be separated only by

pauses ; there were, therefore, fewer divisions than with us now. It was not possible, as it is on our stage, to begin in the midst of a situation, nor to leave it incomplete. In Shakespeare's plays, all the players must enter before they could address the audience, and they must all make their exit before the eyes of the audience ; even the dead must thus be borne off in an appropriate manner. Only the inner stage was concealed behind curtains, which could be drawn apart and drawn together without trouble, and denote a convenient change of scene. First, the front space was the street, —on which, for instance, Romeo and his companions entered in masks ; when they had departed, the curtains were drawn apart, and there was the guest-room of the Capulets, as indicated by the servants in attendance. Capulet came forward from the middle of the background and

greeted his friends ; his company poured in upon THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA. 183 the stage, and spread about the foreground. When the guests had departed, the middle curtain was drawn behind Juliet and the nurse, and the stage became a street again, from which Romeo slipped behind the curtain to be out of sight of his boister- ous friends who were calling him. When these were gone, Juliet appeared on the balcony, the stage became a garden, Romeo appeared, ^^and so on. Everything must be more in motion, lighter, quicker changing of scene-groups, a more rapid coming and going, a more nimble play, a closer concentration of the aggregate impression. Attention is called to this oft discussed arrangement of the stage, because this dispensing with changes of scenes, this former accustoming of the spectator to make every transition of place and time with his own active fancy, exerted a decided influence on Shakespeare's manner of dividing his plays. The number of the smaller divisions could be greater than with us,

because they disturbed the whole less ; sometimes little scenes were inserted with no trouble at all. What seems to us a breaking up of the action, was less perceptible on account of the technical arrangement. Moreover, Shakespeare's audience, accustomed to the spectacular from former times, had a preference for such plays as presented great numbers of men in violent commotion. Processions, battles, scenes full of figures, were preferably seen and be- longed, notwithstanding the scanty equipment which on the whole the spectacular drama of the time pos- i84 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. sessed, to the cherished additions of a play. Like the Englishmen of that time, Shakespeare's heroes are fond of conipany. They like to appear with a train of attendants, and talk confidentially in unrestrained conversation about the important relations of their lives, on the market place and on the street.

In Shakespeare's time, still, the actor must assume

several roles ; but his task now was to conceal his own distinctive personality entirely, and clothe beautiful truth with the appearance of reality. Only the parts of women, which were still played by men, preserved something of the ancient character of stage play, which made the spectator a confidant in the illusion which was to be produced. Upon such a stage appeared Germanic dramatic

art in its first and most beautiful bloom. Shakes-

peare's technique is the same, in essential respects,

that we still strive to attain. And he has, on the whole, established the form and construction of our pieces. In the following pages the discussion must

recur to him continually ; therefore, in this place, only a few of the characteristics of his time and of his manner, which we can no longer imitate, will be mentioned.

In the first place, the change of his scenes is too

frequent for our stage ; above all, the little side scenes are disturbing. Where he binds together a nyimber of scenes, we must form the corresponding part of the action into a single scene. When, for example, in Coriolanus, the dark figure of Aufidius THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA. 185 or of another Volscian appears from the first act forward in short scenes, in order to indicate the counter-play, up to the second half of the piece where this presses powerfully to the front, we are entirely at a loss, on our stage, to make these fleet- ing forces effective, with the exception of the battle scene in the beginning of the rising action. But we are obliged to compose the scenes more strictly for the chief heroes and represent their emotions and movements in a smaller number of situations, and therefore with fuller elaboration. In Shakespeare we admire the mighty power with which, after a brief introduction, he throws excitement in the way of his heroes and impels

them swiftly in rapid upward stages to a momentous i height. His method of leading the action and the \ characters beyond the climax, in the first half of the play, may also serve as a model to us. And in the second half, the catastrophe itself is planned with the sureness and scope of genius, with no attempt at overwhelming effect, without apparent effort, with concise execution, a consequence of the play, following as a matter of course. But the great poet does not always have success with the forces of the falling action, between climax and catastrophe, the part which fills about the fourth act of our plays. In this important place, he seems too much restrained by the customs of his stage. In many of the greatest dramas of his artistic time, the action is divided / up, in this part, into several little scenes, which have h an episodical character and are inserted only to i86 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. make the connection clear. The inner conditions of the hero are concealed, the heightening of effects and the concentration so necessary here fails. It is so in Hamlet, in King Lear, in Macbeth, somewhat so in Antony and Cleopatra. Even in Julius CcBsar, the return action contains, indeed, that splendid quarrel scene and the reconciliation between Brutus

and Cassius, and the appearance of the ghost ; but what follows is again much divided, fragmentary.

In Richard III., \h& falling action is indeed drawn

together into several great impulses ; but yet these do not in a sufficient degree correspond in stage effect to the immense power of the first part. We explain this characteristic of Shakespeare from a relic of the old custom of telling the story on the stage by means of speech and responsive speech. As the dark suspicion against the king works upon Hamlet ; as Macbeth struggles with the idea of murder ; as Lear is continually plunged

deeper into misery ; as Richard strides from one crime to another, — this must be represented in the first half of the drama. The ego, the self of the hero, which strives to achieve its design, here con- centrates almost the entire interest in itself. But from this point on, where the will has become deed, or where the impassioned embarrassment of the hero has reached the highest degree, where the consequences of what has happened are at work and the victory of the counter-play begins, the significance of the opponent becomes, of course, greater. As soon as Macbeth has murdered the THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA. 187 king and Banquo, the poet must turn the efforts of the murderous despot toward other men and events ; other opponents must bring the conflict with him to an end. When Coriolanus is banished from Rome, he must be brought forward in new relations and with new purposes. When Lear flies about as a deranged beggar, the piece must either close, a thing which is not possible without something further, or the remaining persons must make apparent new uses of his terrible fate.

It is also natural that from the climax downward, a greater number of new motives, perhaps, too, of

new persons, may be introduced into the piece ; it is further natural that this play of the opposing party must set forth the influences which are exerted upon the hero from without, and therefore makes necessary more external action and a broader elaboration of the engrossing moment. And it is also not at all surprising that Shakespeare right here yielded more to curiosity and to the very convenient scene- connection of his time than is allowable on our stage.

But it is not this alone. Sometimes one can not repel the feeling that the poet's ardor for his heroes is lessened in the second part. It is certainly not so in Romeo and Juliet. In the return action, Romeo,

indeed, is concealed ; but the poet's darling, Juliet, is so much the more powerfully delineated. It is not so in Coriolanus, where the two most beautiful scenes of the play, that in the house of Aufidius, and the grand scene with the hero's mother, lie in the i88 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. return action. But it is strikingly so in King Lear.

Wha4: follows the hovel scene is only an episode or a divided narrative in dialogue, with insufficient effect ; the second mad scene of Lear is also no intensifying of the first. Similarly in Macbeth, after the frightful banquet scene, the poet is through with the inner life of his hero. The finished witch scene, the prophesying, the dreary episode in Mac- duff's house, — few attractive figures of the counter-play fill this part, in an arrangement of scenes

which we may not imitate ; and only occasionally the great power of the poet blazes up, as in the catastrophe of Lady Macbeth.

Manifestly, it is his greatest joy, to fashion from the most secret depths of human nature, a will and a deed. In this he is inexhaustibly rich, profound, and powerful. No other poet equals him. If he has once rendered his hero this service, if he has represented the spiritual processes culminating in a portentous deed, then the counter-influence of the world, the later destiny of the hero, does not fill him with the same interest.

Even in Hamlet, there is a noticeable weakness in the return action. The tragedy was probably worked over several times by the poet; it was apparently a favorite subject ; he has mysteriously infused into it the most thoughtful and penetrating poetry. But these workings-over at long intervals have taken from the play the beautiful proportion, which is only possible in a simultaneous moulding of all parts. Hamlet is, of course, no precipitate of THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA. 189 poetic moods from half a human life, like Faust; but breaks, gaps, little contradictions Jn tone and speech, between characters and action, remained ineffaceable to the poet. That Shakespeare worked out the character of Hamlet so fondly, and intensified it till beyond the climax, makes the contrast in the second half only so much the greater ; indeed, the character itself receives something iridescent and ambiguous, from the fact that deeper and more spirited motives were introduced into the texture of the rising action. Something of the old manner of bringing narrative upon the stage clung also to the poet's last revision ; some places in Ophelia's exit and the graveyard scene appear to be new-cut diamonds, which the poet has set in while working over the earlier connection.

Nevertheless it is instructive to set forth distinctly in a scheme, the artistic combination of the drama from the constituent parts already discussed.

What is according to plan, what is designed for a certain purpose, has not been found by the poet entirely through the same consideration which is necessary to the reader when instituting his review.

Much is evidently without careful weighing ; it has come into being as if by natural necessity, through

creative power ; in other places, the poet is thoughtful, considerate, has doubted, then decided. But the laws of his creation, whether they directed his invention secretly and unconsciously to himself ; or whether, as rules known to him, they stimulated the creative power for certain effects, they are for us IQO FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. readers of his completed works, everywhere, distinctly recognizable. This self-developing organization of the drama, according to a law, will here be briefly analyzed, without regard to the customary division into acts.

Introduction, i. The key-note ; the ghost appears on the platform ; the guards and Horatio. 2. The exposition itself ; Hamlet in a room of state, before the beginning of the exciting force. 3. Connecting

scene with what follows ; Horatio and the guards inform Hamlet of the appearance of the ghost. Interpolated exposition scene of the accessory action. The family of Polonius, at the departure of Laertes.

The Exciting Force, i. Introductory key-note; expectation of the ghost. 2. The ghost appears to

Hamlet. 3. Chief part, it reveals the murder to him. 4. Transition to what follows. Hamlet and his confidants. Through the two ghost scenes, between which the introduction of the chief persons occurs, the scenes of the introduction and of the first excitement are enclosed in a group, the climax of which lies near the end. Asce?iding action in four stages. First stage: the counter-players. Polonius propounds that Hamlet has become deranged through love for Ophelia.

Two little scenes : Polonius in his house, and before the king; transition to what follows. Second

stage : Hamlet determines to put the king to a test by means of a play. A great scene with episodical ;

THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA. iqi performances, Hamlet against Polonius, the courtiers, the actors. Hamlet's soliloquy forms the transition. Third stage : Hamlet's examination by the counter-players, i. The king and the intriguers.

2. Hamlet's celebrated monologue. 3. Hamlet warns Ophelia. 4. The king becomes suspicious. These three stages of the rising action are worked out with reference to the effect of the two others the first becdmes an introduction, the broad and agreeable elaboration of the second forms the chief

part of the ascent ; the third, through the continua- tion of the monologue, beautifully connected with the second, forms the climax of the group, with sudden descent. Fourth stage, which leads up to

the climax : the play, confirmation of Hamlet's suspicion, i. Introduction. Hamlet, the players and courtiers. 2. The rendering of the play, the king. 3. Transition, Hamlet, Horatio, and the courtiers. Climax. A scene with a prelude, the king praying. Hamlet hesitating. Closely joined to this, the Tragic Force or Incident. Hamlet, during an interview with his mother, stabs Polonius. Two little scenes, as transition to what follows ; the king determines to send Hamlet away. These three scene- groups are also bound into a whole, in the midst of which the climax stands. At either side in splendid working-out, are the last stage of the rising action and the tragic force. The Return. Introductory side-scene. Fortin- :

192 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. bras and Hamlet on the way. First stage Ophelia's madness, and Laertes demanding revenge.

Side scene : Hamlet's letter to Horatio. Second stage : A scene ; Laertes and the king discuss Hamlet's death. The announcement of the queen that Ophelia is dead, forms the conclusion, and the

transition to what follows. Third stage : Burial of Ophelia. Introduction scene, with great episodical elaboration. Hamlet and the grave-diggers. The

short, restrained chief scene ; the apparent reconciliation of Hamlet and Laertes.

Catastrophe. Introductory scene : Hamlet and Horatio, hatred of the king. As transition, the

announcement of Osric ; the chief scene, the killing. Arrival of Fortinbras. The three stages of the falling action are constructed less regularly than those of the first half.

The little side scenes without action, through which Hamlet's journey and return are announced, as well as the episode with the grave-diggers, interrupt the connection of scenes. The work of the dramatic close is of ancient brevity and vigor.

V. THE FIVE ACTS.

The drama of the Hellenes was built up in a regular system of parts, so that between a completed introduction and the catastrophe, the climax came out powerfully, bound by means of a few scenes of the rising and of the falling action with the begin- THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA. Iq3

ning and the end ; within these limits was an action filled with violent passion, and elaborately finished. The drama of Shakespeare led an extensive action in a varied series of dramatic forces, in frequent change of finished scenes and accessory scenes, by steep ascent, up to a lofty height ; and from this summit again downward, by stages. The whole passed before the spectator tumultuously, in violent commotion, rich in figures and sublime effects prominently brought forward. The German stage, on which since Lessing our art has blossomed, collected the scenic effects into larger groups, which were separated from each other by more marked boundaries. The effects are carefully prepared, the ascent is slow, the altitude which is attained is less

lofty and of longer continuance ; and gradually, as it arose, the action sinks to the close. The curtain of our stage has had a material influence on the structure of our plays. The parts of the drama, which have been presented already, must now be disposed in five separate divisions ; they possessed greater independence, because they were drawn farther apart from each other. The transition from the old way of dividing the action to our five acts, was, of course, long ago prepared. The meritorious method of binding together different moods, which the ancient chorus between the single parts of the action represented, failed already in

Shakespeare ; but the open stage, and the pauses, certainly shorter, made, as we frequently recognize in his dramas, breaks in the connection, not always 194 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. so deep as does in our time, the close by means of the curtain, and the interval with music, or without it. With the curtain, however, there came also the attempt not only to indicate the environment of the person who entered, but to carry on the performance with more pretentious elaboration by means of painting and properties. By this means, the effects of the play were essentially colored, and only occasionally supported. Moreover, by this means, the different parts of the action were more distinctly separated than they were yet in Shakespeare's time.

For by means of change of decorations often brilliant, not only the acts, but the smaller parts of the action, became peculiar pictures which form a contrast in color and tone. Every such change dis-

tracts ; each makes a new tension, a new intensifying, necessary.

Therefore little but important alterations were produced in the structure of the pieces. Each act received the character of a completed action. For each, a striking of chords to give the keynote, a short introduction, a climax in strong relief, an effective close, were desirable. The rich equipment for scenic surroundings compelled a restriction of the frequent change of place, which in Shakespeare's time had become too easy, a leaving out of illustra- tive side scenes, and the laying of longer parts of the action in the same room, and in divisions of time following immediately upon one another. Thus the number of scenes became less, the dramatic flow of the whole more quiet, the joining of greater and ;

THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA. 195 lesser forces more artistic. One great advantage, however, was offered by closing up the stage. It would now be possible to begin in the midst of a situation, and end in the midst of a situation. The spectator could be more rapidly initiated into the action, and more quickly dismissed, without taking in the bargain the preparation and the solution of

what had held him spell-bound ; and that was no small gain which was possible five times in a piece, for the beginning and the end of the effects. But this advantage offered also a danger. The depiction of situations, the presentation of circumstances with less dramatic movement, became easier now this painting especially favored, for the quiet Ger- mans, the longer retention of the characters in the same enclosed room. On such a changed stage, the German poets of the last century produced their act^ till the time of Schiller, planning with foresight, —introducing with care, —all with a sustained movement of scenes and effects which corresponded to the measured and formal sociability of the time. In the modern drama, in general, each act in-

cludes one of the five parts of the older drama ; the

first contains the introduction ; the second, the ris-

ing action ; the third, the climax ; the fourth, the

return ; the fifth, the catastrophe. But the necessity of constructing the great parts of the piece in the same fashion as to external contour, renders it impossible that the single acts should correspond entirely to the five great divisions of the action. Of the rising action, the first stage was usually in the 196 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

first act, the last sometimes in the third ; of the falling action, the beginning and end were sometimes

taken in the third and fifth acts, and combined with the other component parts of these acts into a whole. Naturally Shakespeare had already, as a rule, made his divisions in this manner.

This number of acts is no accident. The Roman

stage long ago adhered to it. But only since the development of the modern stage among the French and Germans, has the present construction of the play been established in these countries.

In passing, it may be remarked that the five parts of the action will bear contracting into a smaller number of acts, with lesser subjects of less importance and briefer treatment. The three points, the beginning of the struggle, the climax, and the catastrophe, must always be in strong contrast; the action allows then of division into three acts. Even

in the briefest action, which may have its course in one act, there are five or three parts always recognizable.

But as every act has its significance for the

drama, so it has also its peculiarities in construc-

tion. A great number of variations is possible here. Every material, every poetic personality demands

its own right. Still, from a majority of works of art at hand, some frequently recurring laws may be recognized.

The act of the introduction contains still, as a rule, the beginning of the rising movement, and in general, the following moments or forces : the intro- THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA. 197 ductory or key note, the scene of the exposition, the exciting force, the first scene of the rising action.^ It will therefore be in two parts, as a general thing, and concentrate its effects about two lesser climaxes, of which the last may be the most prominent. Thus in Emilia Galotti, the prince at

his work-table is the key-note ; the interview of the prince with the painter is the exposition ; in the scene with Marinelli lies the exciting force, the approaching marriage of Emilia. The first ascent is in the following short scene, with the prince, in his determination to meet Emilia at the Dominicans'. In Tasso, the decking of the statues with garlands by the two women indicates the prevailing mood of the

piece ; their succeeding conversation and the talk with Alphonso is the exposition. Following this, the decking of Tasso with wreaths by the princess is the exciting force ; the entrance of Antonio and his cool contempt for Tasso is the first stage of the rising action. So in Mary Stuart, the forcing of the cabinets, the confession to Kennedy, the entrance of Mortimer, and the great scene between Mary and the emissaries, follow after each other. In William

Tell, where the three actions are interwoven, there stands after the situation near the beginning, which gives the key-note, and after a short introductory colloquy of country people, the first exciting force for the action of Tell,— Baumgarten's flight and rescue. Then follows as introduction to the action of the confederated Swiss, the scene before Stauffa- cher's house. After this, the first rising action for ; iqS freytag's technique of the drama.

Tell ; the conversation before the hat on the pole.

Finally, for the second action, the exciting force, in the conversation of Walter Fiirst and Melchthal the making of Melchthal's father blind ; and as finale of the first ascent, the resolution of the three Swiss to delay at Riitli.

The act of the ascent has for its duty in our dramas, to lead up to the action with increased tension, in order to introduce the persons in the counter-play who have found no place in the first act. Whether this contains one or several stages of the progressing movement, the hearer has already

received a number of impressions ; therefore in this, the struggles must be greater, a grouping of several in an elaborate scene, and a good close to the act, will be useful. In Emilia Galotti, for instance, the act begins, as almost every act in Lessing does, with an introductory scene, in which the Galotti family are briefly presented, then the intriguers of Marinelli expose their plan. Then the action follows in two stages, the first of which contains the agitation of Emilia after the meeting with the prince ; the second, the visit of Marinelli and his proposition to Appiani. Both great scenes are bound together by a smaller situation scene which presents Appiani and his attitude toward Emilia. The beautifully wrought scene of Marinelli follows the excited mood of the family as an excellent close. The regular construction of Tasso shows in

two acts just two stages of the ascent : the approach of Tasso to the princess, and in sharp contrast, his THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA. 199 strife with Antonio. The second act in Mary Stuart, in its introduction leads forward Elizabeth and the

other counter-players ; it contains the rising action,

Elizabeth's approach to Mary, in three stages : first, the strife of the courtiers in favor of Mary and against her, and the effect of Mary's letter upon

Elizabeth ; further, the conversation of Mortimer with Leicester, introduced by the conversation of the queen with Mortimer; finally, Leicester's induc- ing Elizabeth to see Mary. Tell, finally, compasses in this act the exposition of its third action, the

Attinghausen family ; then, for the confederated

Swiss, a climax in an elaborate scene : Riitli. The act of the climax must strive to concentrate its forces about a middle scene, brought out in strong relief. This most important scene, however, if the tragic force comes in here, is bound with a second great scene. In this case, the climax scene moves well back toward the beginning of the third act. In Emilia Galotti, the entrance of Emilia is the beginning of this highest scene, after an introductory scene in which the prince explains the strained situation, and after the explanatory announcement regarding the attack. The prostration of Emilia and the declaration of the prince are the highest point in the piece. The out- bursting rage of Claudia against Marinelli follows this closely, as a transition to the falling movement. In Tasso, the act begins with the climax, the con- fessions which the princess makes to Leonora of her attachment to Tasso. Following this, comes as 200 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. first stage of the falling movement, the interview between Leonora and Antonio, in which the latter becomes interested in Tasso and resolves to establish the poet at court. In Mary Stuart, the climax and the tragic force lie in the great park scene, which is in two parts ; following this and connected with it by a little side scene, is the outburst of Mor- timer's passion to Mary, as beginning of the falling

action ; the dispersion of the conspirators forms the transition to the following act. The third act of

Tell consists of three scenes, the first of which contains a short preparatory situation scene in Tell's house,— Tell's setting out ; the second, the climax between Rudenz and Bertha ; the third, the greatly elaborated climax of the Tell action,— the shooting of the apple. The act of the return has been treated by the the great German poets, with great and peculiar carefulness since Lessing's time, and its effects are almost always regular and included in a scene of much significance. On the other hand, among us Germans, the introduction of new roles into the fourth act is much more frequent than in Shakes- peare, whose praiseworthy custom it was, previously to intertwine his counter-players in the action. If this is impracticable, still one must be on his guard not to distract attention by a situation scene, which a piece does not readily allow in this place. The newcomers of the fourth act must quickly take a vigorous hold of the action, and so by a powerful energy justify their appearance. The fourth act of ;

THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA. 201

Emilia Galotti is in two parts. After the preparatory conversation between Marinelli and the prince, the new character, Orsina, enters as accomplice in the counter-play. Lessing understood very well how to overcome the disadvantage of the new role, by giving over to the impassioned excitement of this significant character, the direction of the following scenes to the conclusion of the act. Her great

scene with Marinelli is followed by the entrance of Odoardo, as the second stage. The high tension which the action receives by this, closes the act

effectively. In Tasso, the return has its course in

just two scenes : Tasso with Leonora, and Tasso

with Antonio ; both are concluded by Tasso's monologues. The regular fourth act of Mary Stuart

will be discussed later. In William Tell, the fourth act for Tell himself contains two stages for the

falling action ; his escape from the boat, and Gess- ler's death. Between these, stands the return action

for the Attinghausen family, which is interwoven here with the action of the Swiss confederation. The act of the catastrophe contains almost always, besides the concluding action, the last stage of the falling action. In Emilia Galotti, an introductory dialogue between the prince and Marinelli begins the last stage of the falling action, that great interview between the prince, Odoardo and Mari-

nelli, hesitation to give back the daughter to her father, then the catastrophe, murder of Emilia,

The same in Tasso ; after the introductory conversation of Alphonso and Antonio, the chief scene —

202 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

Tasso's prayer that his poem be restored to him ; then the catastrophe, Tasso and the princess. Mary Stuart, — otherwise a model structure in the individual acts — shows the result of using a material which has kept the heroine in the background since the middle of the piece, and has made the counter- player, Elizabeth, chief person. The first scene- group, Mary's exaltation and death, contains her catastrophe, and an episodical situation scene, and her confession, which seemed necessary to the poet, in order to win for her yet a slight increase of sympathy. Closely following her catastrophe, is that of Leicester, as connecting link to the great catastrophe of the piece, Elizabeth's retribution. The last act of Tell, in two parts, is only a situation scene, with the episode of Parricida.

Of all German dramas, the double tragedy of Wallenstein has the most intricate construction. In spite of its complexity, however, this is on the whole regular, and combines its action firmly with Wallensteiti s Death, as well as with The Piccolomini. Had the idea of the piece been perceived by the poet as the historical subject presented it, — an ambitious general seeks to seduce the army to a revolt against its commander, but is abandoned by the majority of his officers and soldiers and slain, then the idea would, of course, have given a regular drama for rising and falling action, a not insignificant excitement, the possibility of a faithful reconstruction of the historical hero.

But with this conception of the idea, what is ;

THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA. 203

best is wanting to the action. For a deliberate treason, which was firmly in the mind of the hero from the beginning, excluded the highest dramatic task, — the working out of the conclusion from the impassioned and agitated soul of the hero. Wal-

lenstein must be presented as he is turning traitor, gradually, through his own disposition, and the

compulsion of his relations ; so another conception of the idea, and an extension of the action became

necessary,— a general is, through excessive power, contentions of his adversaries, and his own pride of heart, brought to a betrayal of his commanding

officer ; he seeks to seduce the army to revolt, but

is abandoned by the majority of his officers and soldiers, and slain. With this conception of the idea, the rising half of the action must show a progressive infatuation of the hero, to the climax, — to the determination

upon treason ; then comes a part, — the seduction of the army to revolt, — where the action hovers

about the same height ; finally in a mad plunge, failure and destruction. The conflict of the general and his army had become the second part of the play. The division of this action into the five acts

would be about the following : First act, introduction, the assembling of Wallenstein's army at Pilsen.

Exciting force ; dispatching of the imperial ambassa- dor, Questenberg. Second act, rising movement; Wallenstein seeks, in any case, the cooperation of the army, through the signatures of the generals banquet scene. Third act, through evil suggestions, 204 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. excited pride, desire of rule, Wallenstein is forced

to treat with the Swedes. Climax : Scene with

Wrangel, to which is closely joined, as the tragic force, the first victory of the adversary, Octavio ; the gaining of General Buttler for the emperor. Fourth act, return action, revolt of the generals, and the majority of the army. Close of the act, a scene with cuirassiers. Fifth act, Wallenstein in Eger, and his death. In the broad and fine elaboration which Schiller did not deny himself, it was impossible for him to crowd the material so rich in figures and in forces, so full of meaning, into the frame of five acts. Besides, the character of Max very soon became exceedingly important to him, for reasons which could not be put aside. The necessity of having a

bright figure in the gloomy group created him ; and the wish to make more significant the relations between Wallenstein and his opponents, enforced this necessity. In intimate relation with Max, Friedland's

daughter grew to womanhood ; and these lovers, pictures characteristic of Schiller, quickly won a deep import in the soul of the creating poet, expanding far beyond the episodical. Max, placed between Wallenstein and Octavio, pictured to the

eye of the poet a strong contrast to either ; he en-

tered the drama as a second first hero ; the episodical love scenes, the conflicts between father and son, between the young hero and Wallenstein, expanded to a special action. THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA. 205

The idea of this second action was : A high- minded, unsuspecting youth, who loves his general's daughter, perceives that his father is leading a political intrigue against his general, and separates

himself from him ; he recognizes that his general has become a traitor, and separates himself from him, to his own destruction and that of the woman whom he loves. This action presents, in its rising movement, the embarrassment of the lovers and their passionate attachment, so far as the climax, which is introduced by Thekla's words, ** Trust them " not ; they are traitors! The relations of the lovers to each other, up to the climax, are made known only by the exalted frame of mind with which Max, in the first act, Thekla in the second, rise above and are in contrast with their surroundings. After the climax, follows the return, in two great stages, both of two scenes, the separation of Max from his father and the separation of Max from Wallenstein ; after this the catastrophe : Thekla receives the announcement of the death of her lover, again in two scenes. With the illumination of two such dramatic ideas, the poet concluded to interlace the two actions into two dramas, which together formed a dramatic unit of ten acts and a prelude.

In The Piccolomiiii, the exciting force is a double one, the meeting of the generals with Questenberg, and the arrival of the lovers in the camp. The Thekla chief characters of the piece are Max and ; the climax of the play lies in the interview of these two, through which the separation of the guileless ;

2o6 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

Max from his surroundings is introduced. The

catastrophe is the complete renouncing of his father by Max. The passages which are brought into this play from the action of Walle?istei?i s Death, are the scenes with Questenberg, the interview of Wallen- stein with the faithful ones, and the banquet scene ;

also, a great part of the first, second, and fourth acts.

In Wallensteifi s Death, the exciting force is the rumored capture of Sesina, closely connected with the interview between Wallenstein and Wrangel the climax is the revolt of the troops from Wallen- stein, — farewell of the cuirassiers. But the catas-

trophe is double ; news of the death of Max, together with Thekla's flight, and the murder of Wallenstein. The scenes interwoven from the action of The Piccolomini are the interview of Max with Wallenstein and with Octavio, Thekla over against her relatives, and the separation of Max from Wal- lenstein, the messenger scene of the Swedish cap-

tain, and Thekla's resolve to flee ; also one scene and conclusion of the second act, the climax of the third, the conclusion of the fourth act. Now, however, such an interweaving of two actions and two pieces with each other would be diffi-

cult to justify, if the union thus produced, the double

drama, did not itself again form a dramatic unity.

This is peculiarly the case ; the interwoven action of the whole tragedy rises and falls with a certain majestic grandeur. Therefore, in The Piccolomini, the

two exciting forces are closely coupled; the first THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA. 207

belongs to the entire action, the second to The Picco- lomifd. The drama has likewise two climaxes lying i in close proximity, of which, one is the catastrophe of The Piccolomi?ii, the other the opening part of

Walle7isteiii s Death. Again, at the close of the last drama, there are two catastrophes, one for the lovers, the other for Wallenstein and the double drama.

It is known that Schiller, during his elaboration of the play, laid the boundaries between The Picco- lomijii and Walleiisteiri s Death. The former embraced,

originally, the first two acts of the latter, and the separation in spirit of Max from Wallenstein. This was, of course, an advantage for the action of Max. But with this arrangement, the scene with Wrangel,

i. e. the portentous deed of Wallenstein, and besides

this Buttler's apostacy to Octavio, i, e., the first

ascent of Walle?istei7i s Death, and the first return of

the entire drama, fell into the first of the two pieces ; and this would have been a considerable disadvan-

tage ; for then the second drama would have contained, with such an arrangement, only the last part of the return, and the catastrophe of the two heroes,

Wallenstein and Max ; and in spite of the magnificent execution, the tension would have been too much lacking to this second half. Schiller concluded, therefore, rightly, to make the division

farther back, and to end the first play with the great conflict scene between father and son. By this division, The Piccolomi?ii lost in compactness, but

Walleiistehi s Death gained in an indispensable order 2o8 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. of construction. Let it be noticed that Schiller made this alteration at the last hour, and that he was probably governed less by his regard for the structure of the parts, than by regard for the unequal time which the two parts would take for representation according to the original division. The action did not form itself in the soul of the poet, as we, following his thought in the completed piece, might think. He perceived with the sureness of deliberation, the course and the poetic effect of the

whole ; the individual parts of the artistic structure took their places in the whole according to a certain natural necessity. What was conformable to laws, in the combination, he has in nowise made everywhere so distinct, through conscious deliberation, as we are obliged to do, getting our notion from the completed masterpiece. Nevertheless we have the right to point out what follows a law, even where he

has not consciously cast it in a mould, reflecting

upon it afterward as we do. For the entire drama,

Walle?istein, in its division, which the poet adopted,

partly as a matter of course, when he first planned

it, and again for individual parts at a later date, per-

haps for external reasons, is an entirely complete

and regular work of art.^^

It is much to be regretted that our theatrical

arrangements render it impossible to represent the

whole masterpiece at one performance ; only in this way would be seen the beautiful and magnificent

effects, which lie in the artistic sequence of parts.

As the pieces are now given, the first is always at THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE DRAMA. 200 the disadvantage of not having a complete close ; the second, of having very numerous presupposed circumstances, and of its catastrophe demanding too much space — two acts. With a continuous representation, all this would come into right relations. The splendid prologue, *' The Camp," the beautiful pictures of which one only wants more powerfully condensed through an undivided action, could hardly be dispensed with as an introduction. It is conceivable that a time may come when it will be a pleasure to the German to witness his greatest drama in its entirety. It is not impracticable, however great the strain would be upon the players. For even when both pieces are given, one after the other, no role exacts what would overtax the powers of a strong man. The spectators of the present, also, are, in the great majority of cases, not incapable on special occasions of receiving a longer series of dramatic effects than our time allotted to a performance offers. But, indeed, such a performance would be possible, if only as an exception, at a great festival occasion, and if only in another auditorium than our theaters. For what exhausts the physical strength of both player and spectator in less than three hours is the unearthly glare of the gaslight, the excessive strain upon the eyes, which it produces, and the rapid destruction of the breath- able air, in spite of all attempts at ventilation. CHAPTER III.

STRUCTURE OF SCENES.

I. ARRANGEMENT OF PARTS.

The acts — this short foreign word has driven the German term into the background — are divided for stage purposes into scenes. The entrance and exit of a person, servants and the like being excepted, begins and ends the scene. Such a division of the I acts is necessary to the management, in order easily

to supervise the efforts of each single role ; and for the presentation on the stage, the scenes represent the little units by the combination of which the acts are formed. But the dramatic passages out of which the poet composes his action, sometimes embrace more than one entrance and exit, or are bound together in a greater number, by the continuance on the stage, of one person. This passage, this single dramatic movement, takes its form through the various stages in which the creative power of the poet works. For, like the links of a chain, the nearly related images and ideas interlock, themselves during the poet's labor, one evoking another with logical coer- cion. The single strokes of the action thus arrange 210 ;

STRUCTURE OF SCENES. 211 themselves in such single parts, while the great outlines of the action the poet carries in his soul.

However diverse the work of the creative power in different minds may be, these logical and poetical units are formed in every poetic work by necessity and anyone who gives careful attention, may easily recognize them in the completed poem, and perceive in individual instances the greater or less power, fervor, poetic fulness, and firm, neat method of work. Such a passage includes as much of a monologue, of dialogue, of the entrance and exit of persons as is needed to represent a connected series of poetic images and ideas, which somewhat sharply divides itself from what precedes and what follows. These passages are of very unequal length ; they may consist of a few sentences, they may embrace several pages ; they may alone form a short scene, they may, placed in juxtaposition, and provided with introductory words and a conclusion leading over to what follows, form a greater complete whole, within an act. For the poet, they are the links out of which he forges the long chain of the action ; he is well aware of their intrinsic merit and characteristic quality, even when he, with powerful effort is creating and welding them, one immediately after another. ^ Out of the dramatic moments, the poet composes scenes. This foreign word is used by us with various meanings. It denotes to the director, first, the stage-room itself, then the part of the action which )

212 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. is presented without change of scenery. To the poet, however, scene means the union of several dramatic moments which forms a part of the action, carried on by the same chief person, perhaps an entire scene, from the director's point of view, at all events, a considerable piece of one. Since a change of scenery is not always necessary or desirable at the exit of a leading character, the scene of the poet and the scene of the director do not always exactly coincide.^" An example may be allowed here. The fourth act of Mary Stuart is divided by the poet into twelve parts (entrances), separated by one shifting of scenery within the act into two director scenes.

It consists of two little scenes and one great scene, —thus three dramatic scenes. The first scene, the intriguers of the court, is composed of two dramatic moments, (i) after a short key note, which gives the tone of the act, the despair of Aubespine, (2) the strife between Leicester and Burleigh. The second scene, Mortimer's end, connected with the preceding by Leicester's remaining on the stage, ( i Leicester's connecting monologue, (2) interview between Leicester and Mortimer, (3) Mortimer's death. The third great scene, the conflict about the death sentence, is more artistically constructed.

It is a double scene, similar to the first and second, only with closer connection, and consists of ten movements, of which the first four, the quarrel of Elizabeth and Leicester, united in a group, and the last six, the signing of the death warrant, stand in contrast. The six movements of the second half of STRUCTURE OF SCENES. 213 the scene, coincide with the last six entrances of the act ; the last of these, Davison and Burleigh, is the close of this animated passage, and the transition to the fifth act.

It is not always easy to recognize these logical units of the creating spirit, from a completed

drama ; and now and then the critical judgment is in doubt. But they deserve greater attention than has so far been accorded to them.

t^ike the act, every single scene, transition scene as well as finished scene, must have an order of parts, which is adapted to express its import with the highest effect. An exciting force must introduce the elaborate scene, the spiritual processes in it must be represented with profusion, in effective progression, and the results of the same be indicated by telling strokes after its catastrophe, toward

which it sweeps forward, richly elaborated ; the con-

clusion must come, brief, and rapid ; for once its purpose attained, the tension slackened, then every 214 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

useless word is too much. And as it is to be intro-

duced with a certain rousing of expectation, so its close needs a slight intensifying, specially a strong expression of the important personalities, at the time they leave the stage. The so-called exits are no unwarranted desire of the player, however much they are misused by a crude effort for effect. The marked division at the end of the scene, and the necessity of transferring the suspense to what follows, rather justify them as an artifice, specially at the close of an act, but of course in moderate use. The poet has frequent occasion, during the presentation of a piece on our stage, to rage against the long intervals which are caused by the shifting of the scenery, and sometimes by the useless changing of costumes. It must be the poet's concern, as much as possible to restrict the actor's excuse for

this practice ; and when a change of costume is

necessary, have regard to it in the arrangement of the action of the piece. A longer interval — that should never be more than five minutes — may, according to the nature of the piece, follow the second or third act. The acts which stand together in closer relation, must not be separated by a pause ; what follows a pause, must have the power to gather up forces, and excite a new suspense. Therefore, pauses between the fourth and fifth acts are most disadvantageous. These last two parts of the action should seldom be separated more markedly than would be allowable between two single scenes. The poet must guard against the production, in this STRUCTURE OF SCENES. 215

part of the action, of closing effects which, on account of the shifting of scenery hard to manage, and the introduction of new crowds, occasion delay. But even the shifting of scenery within the limits

of an act, is no indifferent matter. For every change in the appearance of the stage during an

act, makes a new, strong line of separation ; and the

distraction of the spectator is increased, since the custom has been adopted in modern times, of concealing the process of changing scenes from the

spectator, by the drop curtain. For now it is

impossible to tell, except by the color of the curtain, whether the break is made only for the sake of the management, or whether an act is ended. In view of this inconvenience, it must be the poet's zealous care to make any change of scenes in the act unnecessary ; and it will be well if during the process of composition, he relies on his own power" to

achieve everything in this direction ; for frequently a change of the scenery seems to his embarrassed soul quite inevitable, while in most cases, by slight alterations in the action, it might be avoided. But if the shifting of curtains is not entirely unavoidable during an act, care may yet be taken, at least not to have it occur in the acts which demand the greatest elaboration, specially the fourth, where without this the full skill of the poet is necessary in order to secure progressive power. Such a disturbing break is most easily overcome in the first half of the action. In the alternation of finished and connecting scenes, there lies a great effect. By this, 2i6 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. every part of the whole is set in artistic contrast

with its surroundings ; the essentials are set in a stronger light, the inner connection of the action is more intelligible in the alternating light and shadow. The poet must, therefore, carefully watch his fervid feeling, and examine with care what dramatic forces are for the essentials of his action, what for accessories. He must restrain his incHnation to depict fully certain kinds of characters or situations, in

case these are not of importance to the action ; if, however, he cannot resist the charm of this habit, if he must deviate from this law and accord to an unessential force broader treatment, he will do it with the understanding that by special beauty of elaboration and finish, he must atone for the defect thus caused in the structure.

The subordinate scene, however, whether it be the echo of a chief scene, or the preparation for a new scene, or an independent connecting member, will always give the poet the opportunity to show his talent for the roles, in the use of the greatest brevity. Here is the place for terse, suggestive sketching, which can, in a few words, afford a grati- fying insight into the inmost being of the figures in the background.

n. THE SCENES AND THE NUMBER OF PERSONS.

The freedom in the construction of scenes for our stage, and the greater number of the actors, make it apparently so easy for the poet to conduct STRUCTURE OF SCENES. 217

his action through a scene, that often, in the new drama, the customary result of an excessive lack

of restraint is to be regretted. The scene becomes

a jumble of speeches and responses, without suffi-

cient order ; while it has a wearying length and smooth flowing sentences, neither elevation nor contrasts are developed with any power. Of course, there is not a total lack of connection in the scenes

in the most bewildered work of the amateur ; for the forms are to such a degree the expression of the character, that dramatic perception and feeling, even though unschooled, is accustomed to hit what is the

correct thing, in many essentials ; but not always, and not every one. Let the poet, therefore, during his work, critically apply a few well known rules.

v Since the scene is a part of the drama, set off from other parts, and is to prepare for the meaning of what follows in itself, to excite interest, to place a final result in a good light, and then to lead over to what may follow in the next scene,—minutel}' examined, it will be found to contain five parts, which correspond to the five divisions of the drama. In well wrought scenes, these parts are collectively effective. For it is impracticable to conduct the action in a straight line to the final result. A. feels, wills, demands something. B. meets him, thinking with him, disagreeing with him, opposing him. In every case, the projects of the one are checked by the other, and for a time at least, turned aside. In such scenes, whether they present a deed, a battle of words, an exhibition of feeling, it is desirable 2i8 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. that the climax should not lie in a direct line which leads from the supposed conditions previous to the action, to the final results ; but that it indicate the last point in a deviating direction, from which point the return action falls to the direct line again. Let it be the business of a scene to render B. harmless through A. ; its proposed result, B's promise to be

harmless. Beginning of the scene : A. entreats B.

to be no longer a disturber of the peace ; if B. is already willing to yield to this wish, a longer scene

is not needed. If he accepts passively A's reasons,

the scene moves forward in a direct line ; but it is

in great danger of becoming wearisome. But if B. puts himself on his defensive, and persists in con-

tinuing the disturbance or denies it, then the dia-

logue runs to a point where B. is as far as possible from the wish of A. From here, an approach of points of view begins, the reasons put forth by A.

show themselves strongest, till B. yields. But since every scene points to what follows, this

pyramidal structure is frequently changed into the profile of a shore-beating wave, with long ascending line, and short falling side, —beginning, ascent, final result. According to the number of persons they con-

tain, scenes are determined differently, and are subject to varied arrangement. The monologue gives the hero of the modern stage opportunity, in perfect independence of an observing chorus, to reveal to the audience his most secret feeling and

volition. It might be supposed that such confiding ;

STRUCTURE OF SCENES. 219

to the hearer would be very acceptable ; but it is often not the case. So great is the influence of the struggle of each man, on every purpose of the drama, that every isolation of an individual must have a special justification. Only where a rich inner life has been concealed for a long time in the general play, does the auditor tolerate its private revelation. But in cases where artistic intrigue playing will make the audience a confidant, the spectator*' cares little for the quiet expression of an individual ; he prefers to gather for himself the connection and the contrasts of characters, from a dialogue. Mono- logues have a likeness to the ancient pathos-scene but with the numerous opportunities which our stage offers for characters to expose their inner lives, and with the changed purpose of dramatic effects through the actor's art, they are no necessary additions to the modern drama. Since monologues represent a pause for rest in the course of the action, and place the speaker in a significant manner before the hearer, they need in advance of themselves an excited tension of feeling in the audience, and then a line of division either before or after them. But whether they open an

act or close it, or are placed between two scenes of commotion, they must always be constructed dramatically. ^ Something presented on one side, something on the other side; final result, and indeed, final result that wins something significant for the action

itself. Let the two monologues of Hamlet in the rising action be compared. The second celebrated 220 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. soliloquy **To be or not to be," is a profound revelation of Hamlet's soul, but no advance at all for the action, as it introduces no new volition of the hero ; through the exposition of the inner struggle, it only explains his dilatoriness. The previous monologue, on the contrary, a masterpiece of dramatic emotion, — even this, the outburst resulting

from the previous scene, has as its foundation a simple resolution; Hamlet says: (i) "The actor exhibits so great earnestness in mere play; (2) I sneak along inactive, in the midst of the greatest earnestness; (3) to the work! I will institute a play, in order to win resolution for an earnest deed." In this last sentence, the result of the entire preced-

ing scene is at once concentrated, the effect which the interview with the players produces on the character of the hero, and on the course of the action. Effective soliloquies have naturally become favorite passages with the public. In Schiller's and in Goethe's plays, they are presented with great fondness by the rising generation. Lessing would hardly have sought this kind of dramatic effects,

even if he had written more than Nathan The Wise in our iambics. Next to the monologues, stand the announce- J iments by messenger in our drama. As the former represent the lyric element, the latter stand for the

epic. They have been already discussed. Since it

is their task to relieve the tension already produced that they may be well received, the effect which they produce on the counter-players of the messen- STRUCTURE OF SCENES. 221 ger, or perhaps on himself, must be very apparent. An intense counter-play must accompany and interrupt a longer communication, without, of course, outdoing it. Schiller, who is very fond of these messenger speeches, gives copious examples which serve not only for imitation but for warning. Wal- le?istei?t alone contains a whole assortment of them.

In the beautiful model speeches, "There is in human life," and "We stand not idly waiting for invasion," the poet has connected the highest dramatic suspense with the epic situations. Wallenstein's inspiration and prophetic power appear nowhere so powerful as in his narratives. In the announcement of the Swede, however, the dumb play of the mortally wounded Thekla is in the strongest contrast with the behavior and the message of the active stranger. Moreover, this drama has other descriptions, —for example, the Bohemian cup and the room of the astrologer, —the curtailing or removal of which would be an advantage on the stage. The most im[)ortant part of an action has its place in tne dialogue scenes, specially scenes between two persons. The contents of these scenes, —something set forth, something set forth against it, perception against perception, emotion against emotion, volition against volition, — have with us, deviating from the uniform method of the ancients, found the most manifold elaboration. ^The purpose of every colloquy scene is to bring into prominence from the assertions and counter-,assertions, a result which impels the action further. While the ancient 222 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. dialogue was a strife, which usually exercised no immediate influence on the soul of the participants, the modern dialogue understands how to persuade, demonstrate, bring over to the speaker's point of view. The arguments of the hero and his adversary are not, as in the Greek tragedy, rhetorical word-

contests ; but they grow out of the character and

spirit of the persons contending ; and the hearer is carefully instructed how far they are to express real feeling and conviction, and how far they shall mislead. The aggressor must arrange the grounds of his attack exactly according to the personal character of his antagonist, or he must draw his motives truly from the depths of his own being. But in order that what has a purpose, or what is true, may be fully conceived by the hearer, there is needed a certain trend of speech and reply on the stage, not in the regular course, conformable to custom, as among the Greeks or old Spanish, but essentially different from the way in which we undertake to convince any one in real life. To the character on the

stage, time is limited ; he has no arguments to bring forward in a continuously progressive order of

effects ; he has to explaij;i impressively for his hearer, what is most effective for the time and situation. In reality, such a conflict of opinions may be in many parts, and may rest upon numerous grounds

and opposing grounds ; the victory may long hang doubtful possibly an insignificant, subordinate rea- ;

son may finally determine the outcome ; but this is ;

STRUCTURE OF SCENES. 223 not, as a rule, possible on the stage, as it is not effective.

Therefore, it is the duty of the poet to gather up these contrasts in a few utterances, and to express their inner significance with continuous, progressive force. In our plays, the reasonings of one strike like waves against the soul of the other, broken at first by resistance, then rising higher, till, perhaps, at last they rise above the resistance itself. It happens according to an old law of composition, that frequently the third such wave-beat gives the decision for if the proposition and counter-proposition have each made two excursions, by these two stages the hearer is sufficiently prepared for the decision ; he has received a strong impulse, and has been rendered capable of conveniently comparing the weight of the reasons with the strength of the character on which they are to work. Such dialogue scenes have been finely elaborated with great attractiveness on our stage, since Lessing's time. They correspond much to the joy of the Germans in a rational discussion of a matter of business. Celebrated roles of our stage are indebted for their success to them alone,—Marinelli, Carlos in Clavigo, Wrangel in Wallenstem. Since the poet must so fashion the dialogue

scene that the progress which it makes for the action becomes impressed upon the hearer, the technique of these scenes will be different according to the position in which they find the participants, and in which they leave them. The matter will be 224 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. simplest when the intruder overcomes the one whom he attacks ; then two or three approaches and sepa- rations occur, till the victory of one, or if the attacked person is more tractable, there is a gradual coming over. A scene of such persuasion, of simple structure, is the dialogue in the beginning

of Brutus and Cassius' relations ; Cassius presses, Brutus yields to his demands. The dialogue has a short introduction, three parts, and a conclusion.

The middle part is of special beauty and great finish. Introduction, Cassius says, in effect, " You seem unfriendly toward me, Brutus." Brutus, " Not from coldness." The piarts: i. Cassius, "Much is hoped from you" (frequently interrupted with assurances that Brutus can trust him, and from cries without, calling attention to Caesar). 2. ''What ? is Caesar more than we " 3. " Our wills shall make us free." Conclusion, Brutus, ** I will consider it."

• But if the speakers separate without coming to terms, their position with reference to each other

must not remain unchanged during the scene. It

is intolerable to the audience to perceive such lack of progress in the action. In such a case, the trend of one or both must be broken, enough so, that in another place in the action they apparently agree, and after this point of apparent agreement again turn away from each other with energy. The inner emotions through which these changes of relation are affected, must be not only genuine but adapted to produce what follows, not mere conflicting whims :

STRUCTURE OF SCENES. 225

arranged for the sake of a scenic effect but of no service to the action or the characters.

By unconnected talk, it is possible to bring into the field numerous reasons and counter-reasons, and

to give the lines a sharper turn ; but on the whole, the structure remains in form, as was indicated in

the comparison with a roaring wave ; a gradual movement upward to the climax, result, a short

close. This is illustrated in the great quarrel scene between Egmont and Orange, indeed the best

wrought part of the drama. It is composed of four

parts, before which there is an introduction, and

after which there is a conclusion. Introduction,

Orange : "The queen regent will depart." Egmont

"She will not." First part. Orange: "And if another comes?" Egmont: "He will do as his predecessor did." Second part, Orange: "This

time, he will seize our heads." Egmont: "That is

impossible." Third part. Orange: "Alba is under way; let us go into our province." Egmont:

"Then we are rebels." Here there is a turn; from

this point, Egmont is the aggressor. Fourth part, " Egmont : You are acting irresponsibly." Orange : "Only with foresight." Orange: "I will go and deplore you as lost." The last uniting of these disputants into a harmonious spirit forms a fine contrast to Egmont's previous violence. The scenes between two persons have received special significance in the new drama, scenes in which two persons seem decidedly to cherish one opinion, love scenes. They have not originated in 226 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. the ephemeral taste, or passing tenderness of poets and spectators, but through an original mental characteristic of the Germans. Ever since the earliest times, love-making, the approach of the young hero to a young maiden, has been specially charming to German poetry. It has been the ruling poetic inclination of the people to surround the relations of lovers before marriage, with a dignity and a nobility of which the ancient world knew nothing. In no direction has the contrast of the Germans with ancient peoples shown itself more markedly ; through all the art of the middle ages, even to the present, this significant feature is noticeable. Even in the serious drama, it prevails with a higher justification. This most attractive and lovely relation of all the earth, is brought into connection with the dark and awful, as complementary contrast, for the highest degree of tragic effect. During the poet's work, indeed, these scenes are

not the most convenient part of his creation ; and everyone will not succeed in them. It is not a useless work to compare with each other the greatest love scenes in our possession, the three scenes with Romeo at the masked ball, the balcony scene, before and after the marriage night, and Gretchen in the garden. In the first Romeo scene, the poet has set the most difficult task for the

actor's art ; in it, the speech of the beginning pas-

sion is wonderfully abrupt and brief ; from behind the polite play of words, which was current in ;

STRUCTURE OF SCENES. 227

Shakespeare's time, the growing feeling appears only in "lightning flashes. Indeed, the poet perceived into what difficulties a fuller speech would plunge him. The first balcony scene has always been considered a masterpiece of the poetic art but when one analyzes the exalted beauty of its verses, one is astonished to find how eloquently, and with what unrestrained enjoyment, the spirits of the lovers are able to sport with their passionate feeling. Beautiful words, delicate comparisons, are so massed that we sometimes almost feel the art to be artful. For the third, the morning scene, the idea of the old minnesongs^ and popular songs, — the song of the watchmen, — are made use of in a most charming manner. Goethe, also, in his most beautiful love scene

has made poetic use of popular reminiscences ; he has composed the declaration of love, in his own manner, out of little lyric and epic moments, which — though not entirely favorable for a great effect, — he interrupts through the incisive contrast, Martha and Mephistopheles. This circumstance, also, reminds us that the dramatist was a great lyric poet, in that Faust retires for the most part, and the scenes are not much other than soliloquies of

Gretchen. But each of the three little parts of which the picture is composed is of wonderful beauty. To the enthusiastic Schiller, on the other hand, while he was writing iambics, success in this kind of scenes was not accorded. He succeeded best in ;

228 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

The Bride of Messina. But in William Tell, the scene

between Rudenz and Bertha is without life ; and even in Wallenstei?i, when such a scene was quite necessary, he has through the absence of Countess

Terzky put a damper on it ; Thekla must keep the loved one from the camp and from the astrologer's

room, till finally by herself for a brief time, she can utter the significant warning. The brilliant examples of Shakespeare and Goethe show, also, the danger of these scenes. This, too, must be discussed. The utterance of lyric

emotions on the stage, if it is at all continued, will,

in spite of all poetic art, certainly weary the hearer

it becomes the dramatic poet's profitable task then,

to invent a little occurrence in which the ardent feeling of the loving pair can express itself by mu-

tual participation in a moment of the action ; in this way he possesses the dramatic thread on which to string his pearls. The sweet love chatter which

has no purpose beyond itself, he will rightly avoid;

and where it is inevitable, he will replace with the beauty of poetry what he, as a conscientious man, must take from the length of such scenes. The entrance of a third person into the dialogue

gives it a different character. As through the third man the stage picture receives a middle point, and the setting up of a group, so the third man often becomes, in import, an arbitrator or judge before whom the two parties lay the reasons they have at heart. These reasons of the two parties are, in such a case, arranged directly for him, according to STRUCTURE OF SCENES. 229

• his disposition, and thereby take on the nature of something that is known. The course of the scene becomes slower; between speech and response, a judgment enters which must, also, present itself to the hearer with some significance. Or the third

player is himself a party and associate of one side. In this case, the utterances of one party will become more rapid, must break out with more feeling, because from the interested hearer, greater intensity

of attention is exacted, while he must put the character and import of two persons in one scale.

Finally, -the third and most infrequent case is that each of the three sets up his will against the other two. Such scenes are sometimes serviceable as the last notes of a relieved suspense. They have but a brief service to render; for the three speakers

utter themselves really in monologues : thus the

scene with Margaret in Richard III., where one character gives the melody, both the other characters in contrasts give the accompaniment. But such scenes with three players rarely gain significance in greater elaboration, except when at least one of the players goes over to the point of view of another in simulated play. Scenes which collect more than three persons for active participation in the action, the so-called ensemble scenes, have become an indispensable element in our drama. They were unknown to the old

tragedy ; a part of their service was replaced by a union of a solo actor and the chorus. They do not comprise, in the newer drama, specially, the highest 230 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. tragic effects, although a greater part of the most animated action is executed in them. For it is a truth not sufficiently regarded, that what originates from many, or consists of many things, excites and holds attention less than what receives its vividness or comes alive from the soul of the chief figures. The interest in the dramatic life of the subordinate characters is less, and the remaining of many participants on the stage may easily distract the eye or the curiosity, rather than attract and arouse. On the whole, the nature of these scenes is that by good management on the part of the poet, they keep the audience busily occupied and relieve the

suspense created by the chief heroes ; or they help to call forth such a suspense in the souls of the chief figures. They have, therefore, the character of preparatory, or of closing scenes.

It hardly need be mentioned that their peculiarities do not always become apparent when more than three persons are on the stage. For when a few chief roles alone, or almost exclusively, present the action, accessory figures may be desirable in considerable number. A council scene or parade scene may easily collect a multitude of actors on the stage, without their coming forward actively in the action.

The first direction for the construction of the ensemble scene is, the whole company must be occupied in a manner characteristic of the persons and as the action demands. They are like invited guests, for whose mental activity the poet must, as invisible STRUCTURE OF SCENES. 231 host, have incessant care. During the progress of the action, he must perceive clearly the effects which the individual processes, speech, response, produce on each of the participants in the play.

It is evident that one person must not express in the presence of another person on the stage, what

this one is not to hear ; the usual device of an aside must be used only in extreme cases, and for a few words. But there is a greater difficulty. A role must also not express anything to which another person present is to give an answer which, according to his character, is necessary, but which would be useless and clogging to the action. In order to be just to all characters in a scene full of persons, the poet must have unrestricted mastery of his heroes, and a clear vision for stage pictures. For every individual role influences the mood and bearing of every other, and has a tendency, besides, to limit the freedom of expression of the others. In such scenes, therefore, the art of the poet will specially show itself by setting the characters in contrast, through sharp little strokes. ^ And it is well to observe that suitably to occupy all of the collected persons is rendered difficult by the nature of our stage, which incloses the actors by its curtains as in a hall; and if the poet does not take definite pre- cautions, as it is often impossible to do, this makes the separation of individuals difficult. But further, the more numerous the actors invited into a scene, the less space individuals have to express themselves in their own way. The poet 232 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. must also see to it that the respective parts of the action are not broken up into fragments by the greater number of participants and made to move

forward monotonously in little waves ; and as he arranges the persons in groups, he must likewise arrange the action of the scene so that the movement of subordinate roles does not excessively limit the movement of the leading characters.

Hence the value of the principle : the greater the number of persons in a scene, the stronger must be the organization of the structure. The chief parts must then be so much the more prominent, now the individual leading moods in contrast with the majority, now the cooperation of the whole stand in the foreground. Since with a greater number of players, the individual is easily concealed, those places in the ensemble scene are specially difficult in which the

effect of any thing done is made to appear upon individual participants. When in such a case, a single brief word thrown in does not suffice to

inform the spectator, some contrivance is needed which, without appearing to do so, separates the individual from the group and brings him to the

front. It is entirely impracticable in such a case suddenly to interrupt the dramatic movement of the majority, and convert all the others into silent and inactive spectators of the private revelations of an individual. The more rapidly the action moves forward in concerted play, the more difi^cult the isolation of the STRUCTURE OF SCENES. 233

individual becomes. When the action has attained

a certain height and momentum, it is not always possible even with the greatest art, to afford the chief actor room for a desirable exhibition of his inmost mood. Hence for such scenes, the value of

the third law : the poet will not have his persons

say all that is characteristic of them, and that would be necessary in itself for their roles. For here arises an inner opposition between the requisites of single roles and the advantage of the whole. Every person on the stage demands a share for himself in the progress of the action, so far as his associated relation with the other characters of the scene allows it. The poet is under the necessity, however, of limiting this share. Even chief characters must sometimes accompany with dumb play, when in real life opportunity would be given to engage in the conversation. On the other hand, a long silence is embarrassing to a player, the subordinate character becomes wearied and sinks into a stage walker, the chief character feels keenly the wrong

which is done to his part ; far less, he feels its higher necessity. It does not always suffice for the right aggregate effect, that the poet have regard to the activity of the roles not standing entirely in the foreground, and by means of a few words, or by means of a not unknown employment, afford to the actor a certain direction for his dumb play, and at the same time a transition to the place where he shall again participate in the action. There are extreme cases where the same thing is valuable in a 234 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. scene, that is allowed in a great painting showing numerous figures in vigorous action and complication. Just as in the picture, the swing of the chief lines is so important that the right foreshortening of an arm or a foot must be sacrificed to it, so in the strong current of a scene rich in figures, the representation necessary for individual characters must be given up for the sake of the course, and the aggregate effect of the scene. In order that the poet may be able to practice attractively such offered deceptions, his understanding must be clear that in themselves they are blemishes.

It is really to the advantage of a piece, to limit the number of players as much as possible. Every additional role makes the setting more difficult, and renders the repetition of the piece inconvenient, in case of the illness or withdrawal of an actor. These external considerations alone will determine the poet to weigh well, in composing his ensemble scenes, what figures are absolutely indispensable.

Here comes an internal consideration : the greater the number of accessory persons in a scene, so much the more time it claims. The ensemble scenes are, of course, an essential help to give to the piece color and brilliancy. They can hardly be spared in using historical subjects. But they must be used in such pieces with moderation, because more than the others they make success depend on the skill of the manager, and because in them, the elaborate representation of the inner life of the chief figures, a minute portrayal of STRUCTURE OF SCENES. 235

the mental processes, which claim the highest dramatic interest, is much more difficult. The second half of the piece will demand them most urgently, because here the activity of the counter- players comes forward more powerfully, tolerated, however, without injury, only when in this division of the action, the ardent sympathy of the spectators has already been immovably fixed with the chief characters. Here, too, the poet must take care not to keep the inner life of the hero too long concealed. One of the most beautiful ensemble scenes of

Shakespeare is the banquet scene in Pompey's gdi\-

\Qy, \n Afitony a?id Cleopatra. It contains no chief part of the action, and is essentially a situation scene, a thing not occurring frequently in the tragic part of the action in Shakespeare. But it receives a certain significance, because it is at the close of the second act, and also stands m a place demanding eminence, especially in this piece, in which the preceding political explanations make a variegated and animated picture very desirable. The abundance of little characterizing traits which are united in this scene, their close condensation, above all, the technical arrangement, are admirable. The scene is introduced by a short conversation among servants, as is frequently the case in Shakespeare, in order to provide for the setting of the tables and the arrangement of the furniture on the stage. The scene itself is in three parts. The first part presents the haughty utterances of the reconciled 236 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

triumvirs, and the pedantry of the drunken simple- ton, Lepidus, to whom the servants have already

referred ; the second, in terrible contrast, is the

secret interview of Pompey and Menas ; the third, introduced by the bearing out of the drunken Lep-

idus, is the climax of the wild Bacchanalia and rampant drunkenness. The connecting of the three parts, as Menas draws Pompey aside, as Pompey again in the company of Lepidus, resuming, continues

the carouse, is quite worthy of notice. Not a word

in the whole scene is without its use and signifi-

cance ; the poet perceives every moment the condition of the individual figures, and of the accessory

persons ; each takes hold of the action effectively ; for the manager, as well as for the roles, the

whole is adapted in a masterly way. From the first news of Antony across the Nile,— through which the image of Cleopatra is introduced even into this scene, —and the simple remark of Lepidus, **'You have strange serpents there," through which

an impression is made on the mind of the hearer, that prepares for Cleopatra's death by a serpent's sting, to the last words of Antony, "Good; give me your hand, sir," in which the intoxicated man involuntarily recognizes the superiority of Augustus Caesar, and even to the following drunken speeches of Pompey and Enobarbus, everything is like fine chiseled work on a firmly articulated metal frame. A comparison of this scene with the close of the banquet act in The Piccolommi, is instructive. The internal similarity is so great that one is obliged to STRUCTURE OF SCENES. 237 think Schiller had the Shakespearean performance before his eyes. Here also, a poetic power is to be admired, which can conduct a great number of

figures with absolute certainty ; and here is a great wealth of significant forces, and a powerful climax in the structure. But what is characteristic of Schiller, these forces are partly of an episodical

nature ; the whole is planned more broadly and extensively. This last has its justification. For the scene stands at the end, not of the second, but of the fourth act, and it contains an essential part of the action, the acquisition of the portentous

signature ; it would have had a still greater place if the banquet did not fill the entire act. The connection of parts is exactly as in Shakespeare.^^ First comes an introductory conversation between servants, which is spun out in disproportionate dimen-

sions ; the description of the drinking cup has no right to take our attention, because the cup itself has nothing further to do with the action, and the numerous side lights which fall from this description upon the general situation are no longer strong enough. Then comes an action, also in three parts: first, Terzky's endeavor to get the signature from

accessory persons ; second, in sharp contrast with

the first, the brief conversation of the Piccolomini ; third, the decision, as a strife of the drunken Illo with Max. Here the union of the individual parts of the scene is very careful. Octavio, through Buttler's cautious investigation, quietly calls attention away from the excited group of generals 238 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

toward his son ; through the search for the wanting name, attention is completely turned to Max. Here- upon the intoxicated lUo turns first with great significance to Octavio before his collision with Max. The uniting and separating of the different groups, the bringing into prominence the Piccolomini, the excited side-play of the accessory characters, even to the powerful close, are very beautiful. Besides, we possess two powerful mass scenes of Schiller, the greatest out of the greatest time of our poetic art ; the Riitli scene, and the first act of Demetrius. Both are models which the beginner in dramatic wofk may not imitate, but may study carefully, in their sublime beauty. Whatever must be said against the dramatic construction of William Tell, upon single scenes there rests a charm, which continually carries one away with new admiration.

In the Riitli scene, the dramatic movement is a moderately restrained one, the execution broad, splendid, full of beautiful local color. First, there is an introduction, the mood. It consists of three parts : arrival of the under forester, interview of Melchthal and Stauffacher, greeting of the cantons.

Let it be noted that the poet has avoided wearying by a triple emphasizing of the entrance of the three cantons. Two chief figures here bring themselves into powerful contrast with the subordinate figures,

and form a little climax for the introduction ; and distraction through several forces of equal impulse, is avoided. With the entrance of the Urians, through whose horn the descent from the mountain, and the STRUCTURE OF SCENES. 239 discourse of those present is sufficiently emphasized, the action begins. This action runs along in five parts. First, appointment for public meeting, with short speeches and hearty participation of th* sub-

ordinate persons ; second, after this, Stauffacher's magnificent representation of the nature and aim of the confederation ; third, after this powerful address of the individual, excited conflict of opinions and parties concerning the position of the confederation with reference to the emperor ; fourth, high degree of opposition, even to an outbreaking strife over the means of release from the despotism of the gov- ernors, and disagreement over the conclusions.

Finally, fifth, the solemn oath. After such a conclusion of the action, there is the dying away of the mood which takes its tone from the surrounding nature, and the rising sun. With this rich organization, the beauty in the relations of the single parts is especially attractive. The middle point of this whole group of dramatic incidents or forces,

Stauffacher's address, comes out as climax ; after this as contrast, the restless commotion in the masses, the dawning satisfaction, and the lofty exaltation. Not less beautiful is the treatment of the numerous accessory figures, the independent seizing upon the action by single little roles, which in their significance for the scene stand near each other with a certain republican equality of justification.

The greatest model for political action is the opening scene in Demetrius, the Polish parliament. 240 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

The subject of this drama makes the communication of many presupposed conditions necessary ; the peculiar adventures of the boy, Demetrius, demanded a vigorous use of peculiar colors, in order to bring that strange world poetically near. Schiller, with the bold majesty peculiar to himself, made the epic narrative the center of a richly adorned spectacular scene, and surrounded the long recital of the individual, with the impassioned movements of the masses. After a short introduction follows, with the entrance of Demetrius, a scene in four parts, ( ) the i narrative of Demetrius, (2) the short, condensed repetition of the same by the archbishop, and the first waves which are thereby excited in the gather- ing, (3) the entreaty of Demetrius for support, and the increase of the agitation, (4) counter argument and protest of Sapieha. The scene ends with tumult and a sudden breaking off. By means of a slight dramatic force, it is connected with the following dialogue between Demetrius and the king.

The excitement of the subordinate characters is

brief but violent, the leaders of opinion few ; except

Demetrius, there is only one raising strong opposition, from all the mass. It is perceived and felt that the masses have been given their mood in ad-

vance ; the narrative of Demetrius, in its elegant elaboration forms the chief part of the scene, as was befitting for the first act.

Goethe has left us no mass scene of great dramatic effect unless we are to consider some short scenes in Gots as such. The populace scenes in STRUCTURE OF SCENES. 241

Egmo7it lack in powerful commotion ; the beautiful promenade in Faust is composed of little dramatic pictures; the student scene in Auerbach's cellar pro- poses no tragic effect, and presents to the actor of

Faust, the disadvantage that it leaves him idle, unoccupied on the stage. « The action scenes in which great masses work, demand the special support of the manager. If our stages have already, in the chorus personnel of the opera, a tolerable number of players, and these are accustomed to render service as stage-walkers, yet the number of persons who can be collected on the stage is often so small as to be lost sight of, when compared with the multitude which in real life participate in a populace scene, in a fight, in a great uproar. The auditor, therefore, easily feels the emptiness and scantiness as he sits before the little crowd that is led in. It is also a disadvantage that the modern stage is little adapted to the disposition of great masses. Now, of course, the external arrangement of such scenes is for the most part in the

hands of the manager ; but it is the poet's task through his art, to make it easy for the manager to produce the appearance of a lively multitude on the stage. Since the entrance and exit of a great number of persons requires considerable time and distracts attention, this must be attracted and retained by suggestive little contrivances, and through the distribution of the masses in groups. 242 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

The space of the stage must be so arranged, that the comparatively small number of really available players can not be overlooked,—by shifting side- scenes, good perspective, an arrangement along the sides that shall suggest to the fancy greater invisible multitudes which make themselves noticeable by signs and calls to each other behind the scenes. Brilliant spectacular pageants, such as Iffland arranged for The Maid of Orleans, the composer of

a tragedy will deny himself with right ; he will avoid as much as possible, the opportunity for

this. On the other hand, mass effects in which the multitude surges in violent commotion, populace- scenes, great council assemblies, camps, battles, are sometimes desirable. For populace scenes, the beautiful treatment of Shakespeare has become a model often patterned after, —short, forcible speeches of individual figures, almost always in prose, interrupting and enlivening

cries of the crowd, which receives its incitement from individual leaders. By means of a populace scene on the stage, other effects may be produced, not the highest dramatic effects, but yet significant, which till the present time have been little esteemed by our poets. Since we should not give up verse in populace scenes, another treatment of the crowd is offered than that which Shakespeare loved. Now the introduction of the old chorus is impossible. The new animation which Schiller attempted, dare not find imitation, in spite of the STRUCTURE OF SCENES. 243 fulness of poetic beauty which is so enchanting in the choruses of the Bride of Messi?ia. But between the chief actors and a great number of subordinate actors, there is still another, dramatic, animated, concerted play conceivable, which con- nects the leader with the multitude as well as places him over against it. Not only short cries, but also speeches which require several verses, receive an increased power through the concert recitation of several with well practiced inflection and in measured time. With the multitude introduced in this way, the poet will be put in a position to give it a

more worthy share in the action ; in the change from single voices to three, or four, and to the whole together, between the clear tenor and powerful bass, he will be able to produce numerous shades, modulations, and colors. With this concert speech of great masses, he must take care that the meaning of the sentence, and the weight and energy

of the expression correspond ; that the words are easily understood and without discord; that the individual parts of the sentence form a pleasing contrast.

It is not true that this treatment puts on the stage an artificial instead of a varied and natural movement ; for the usual manner of arranging populace scenes is an accepted artistic one, which transforms the course of the action according to a scheme. The way proposed here is only more effective. In making use of it, the poet may conceal his art, and by alternating in the use of the 244 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

concert speech and counter-speech, produce variety.

The sonorous speech in many voices is adapted not

only to animated quarrels and discussions, it is available for every mood which effervesces in a popular tumult. On our stage up to the present time, the practice of concert speech has been unac-

countably neglected ; it is often only an unintelligible scream. The poet will do well, therefore, to indicate specifically in the stage copies of his plays, how the voice groups are to be divided. In order to indicate this properly, he must have first felt the effects distinctly in advance. Battle scenes are in bad repute on the German stage, and are avoided by the poet with foresight.

The reason is, again, that our theaters do such things badly. Shakespeare has an undeniable fondness for martial movements of masses. He has not at all lessened them in his later pieces ; and since he occasionally speaks with little respect of the means by which fights are represented in his theater, one is justified in believing that he would willingly have kept away from them if his audiences had not liked them so well. But upon such a martial-spirited people, who passionately cultivated all manner of physical exercise, such an impression was possible only when in these scenes a certain art and technique were evident, and when the conven- tionalities of the stage did not make them deplor- able. Scenes like the fight of Coriolanus and Aufidius, Macbeth and Macduff, the camp scenes in Richard III. and Julius Ccesar, have such weight STRUCTURE OF SCENES. 245 and significance that it is evident with what confidence Shakespeare trusted in their effects. In more recent times, on the English stage, these martial scenes have been embellished with a profusion of accessories, and their effects wonderfully enhanced ; the audience has been only too much occupied with them. If in Germany there is too little of this occurring, this negligence can afford the poet no grounds to keep himself anxiously free from battle scenes. There are accessory effects which can render him acceptable service. He must take a little pains, himself, to find out how they may be best arranged, and see to it that the stage does ks duty. CHAPTER IV. THE CHARACTERS.

I. THE PEOPLE AND POETS.

The fashioning of the dramatic characters, among the Germanic peoples, shows more distinctly than the construction of the dramatic action the progress which the human race has made since the appearance of dramatic art among the Greeks. Not only the natural disposition of our people, but its altitude above the historic periods of a world spread out to full view, and the consequent development of an historic sense, declare and explain this difference.

Since it has been the task of the new drama, by means of the poetic and histrionic arts to represent upon the stage the appearance of an individual life, even to illusion, the delineation of character has won a significance for the art, which was unknown to the ancient world. The poetic power of the dramatic poet displays itself most immediately in the invention of dramatic characters. In the construction of the action, in the adaptation to the stage, other characteristics help him : a true culture, manly traits of character,

good training, experience ; but when the capability

246 THE CHARACTERS. 247 for a sharp defining of characters is small, a work, perhaps correct from the point of view of the stage, 'f may be created, but never pne^pf real significance.

If, on the other hand, peculiar power of invention makes the individual roles attractive, a good hope may be cherished, even if the cooperation of the figures for a collective picture is quite lacking. Right here, then, in this part of artistic creation, less help is gained from instruction than in any other part. The poetics of the Greek thinkers, as we have received it, contains only a few lines on the characters. In our time, too, the technique is able to set up nothing but a few bare directions, which do not essentially advance the creating poet. What the rules for work can give, the poet carries, on the

whole, securely in his own breast ; and what he does not possess, they are not able to give. The poet's characterization rests on the old peculiarity of man, to perceive in every living being a complete personality, in which a soul like that of the observer's is supposed as animating principle ; and beyond this, what is peculiar to this being, what is characteristic of it, is received as affording enjoyment. With this tendency, long before his power of poetic creation becomes an art, man transforms all that surrounds him into personalities, to which, with busied imagination, he attributes much of the character peculiar to human beings. In thunder and lightning, he perceives the form of a god, traversing the concave heaven in a war chariot,

and scattering fiery darts ; the clouds are changed 248 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

into celestial cows and sheep, from which a divine figure pours the milk upon the earth. Also the creatures which inhabit the earth with man, he perceives as possessed with a personality similar to that of man himself — thus bears, foxes, wolves. Every one of us imputes to the dog and to the cat ideas

and emotions which are familiar to us ; and only

because such a conception is everywhere a necessity and a pleasure, are animals so domesticated. This

tendency to personify expresses itself incessantly:

in intercourse with our fellow men, daily ; at our

first meeting with a stranger ; from the few vital

expressions which come to us from him ; from__sjn;; gle^jvords, from the tone of his voice, from the •^ expression of his countenance, we form the picture

of his complete personality ; we do this especially by completing with lightning rapidity the imperfect impressions, from the stock of our phantasy, according to their similarity with previous impressions, or what has been previously observed. Later observation of the same person may modify the

image which has fallen upon the soul, may give it

a richer and deeper development ; but already, at

the first impression, however small the number of characteristic traits may be, we perceive these as a logical, strictly computed whole, in which we rec-

ognize what is peculiar to this man, upon the back-

ground of what is common to all men. This

creating of a form is common to all men, to all

times ; it works in every one of us with the neces-

sity and the rapidity of an original power ; it is to THE CHARACTERS. 249

each one a stronger or a weaker capability ; it is to each a rapturous necessity. Upon this fact rests the efficacy of dramatic characterization. The inventive power of the poet produces the artistic appearance of a rich individual life, because he has so put together a few vital expressions of a person — comparatively few — that the person, understood and felt by him as a unity, is intelligible to the actor and to the spectator as a charact^istic being. Even in the case of the chief heroes of a drama, the number of vital expressions which the poet, limited in time and space, is able to give, the aggregate number of characterizing traits,

is much too small ; while in the case of accessory figures, perhaps two or three indications, a few words, must produce the appearance of an independent, highly characteristic life. How is this possible? For this reason : the poet understands

the secret of suggesting ; of inciting the hearer, through his work, to follow the poet's processes and create after him. For the power to understand and

enjoy a character is attained only by the self-activity of the receptive spectator, meeting the creating artist helpfully and vigorously. What the poet and

the actor actually give is, in itself, only single

strokes ; but out of these grows an apparently richly gotten-up picture, in which we divine and

suppose a fulness of characteristic life, because the poet and the actor compel the excited imagination of the hearer to cooperate with them, creating for

itself. 250 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

The method of fashioning characters, by different poets, is of the greatest variety. It varies with different times and different peoples. The method of the Latin races is very different from that of the Germanic races. With the early Germans, the enjoyment has always, from the first, been greater

in the invention of characterizing details ; with the Latins, the joy has been greater in compactly uniting, for a special purpose, the men represented, in an artistically interwoven action. The .modern German reaches more deeply into his artistic pro-

duct ; he seeks to put upon exhibition a richer inner life ; what is peculiar, indeed what is specially rare, has the greatest charm for him. But the

Latin perceives what is restricted to the individual, specially from the point of view of convenience and adaptability to purpose ; he makes society the center, not the inner life of the hero, as the German

does ; he is glad to set over against each other, persons fully developed, often with only hasty outlines of character. It is their diverse tendencies that make them interesting to each other in the counter- play. Where the special task is the accurate representation of a character, as in Moliere, and where characteristic details elicit special admiration, these characters, the miser and the hypocrite, are inwardly most nearly complete ; they are exhibited with a monotony at last wearisome, in different social rela-

tions ; in spite of the excellence in delineation on our stage, they become more and more foreign to us, because the highest dramatic life is lacking to ;

THE CHARACTERS. 251 them — the processes of coming into being, the growth of character. We prefer to recognize on the stage how one becomes a miser, rather than see how he is one.

What fills the soul of a German, then, and makes a subject of value, what stimulates to creative activity, is especially the peculiar transformations of

character in the chief persons ; the characters blossom first in his creating mind ; for these he invents

the action ; from them beams the color, the warmth, the light, upon the accessory figures : the Latin has been more strongly attracted by the combinations of the action, the subordination of individual elements to the dominion of the whole, suspense, intrigue. This contrast is old, but it comes down to the present time. It is more difficult for the German to construct an action for his clearly conceived characters ; for the Latin, the threads interlace easily and spiritedly into an artistic web. This peculiarity occasions a difference in the productive- ness and the value of the dramas. The literature of the Latins has little that can be compared with the highest products of the German mind ; but frequently, in the condition of our people, no piece available for the stage comes from their weaker talents. Single scenes, single characters, command attention and admiration; but they lack, as a whole, in neat elaboration and power to excite feeling. Mediocrity succeeds better outside of Germany and where neither the poetic idea nor the characters lay claim to poetic value, the shrewd invention of 252 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. intrigue, the artistic combination of persons for animated life, is found entertaining. While with the

Germans, that which is most highly dramatic, — the working out of the perceptions and feelings in the soul, into a deed, — comes to light more seldom, yet once in a while, in irresistible power and beauty in art, with the Latins is found more frequently and more productive the second characteristic of dramatic creation, — the invention of the counter-play, the effective representation of the conflict which the environment of the hero wages against his weaknesses. But further, in the work of every individual poet, the method of characterization is diverse ; very different is the wealth of figures, and the pains and distinctness with which their essential nature is presented to the hearer. Here Shakespeare is the deepest and richest of creative geniuses, not without a peculiarity, however, which often challenges our admiration. We are inclined to accept it, and we learn it from many sources, that his audience did not consist entirely of the most intelligent and cultured people of old England ; we are also justified in supposing that he would give to his characters a simple texture, and accurately expose their relation to the idea of the drama, from all sides. This does not always occur. The spectator, in the case of Shakespeare's heroes, does not remain in uncer-

tainty as to the chief motive of their actions ; indeed the full power of his poetic greatness is evident just in this, that he understands, as no other poet does. THE CHARACTERS. 253

how to express the mental processes of the chief characters, from the first rising perception to the ch'max of passion, with extremely affecting power and truth. The propelling counter-players in his

dramas, lago and Shylock, for instance, do not fail to make the spectator a confidant in what they

wish. And it may be well said that the characters of Shakespeare, whose passion beats in the highest waves, allow the spectator to look into the depths of their hearts, more than the characters of any

other poet. But this depth is sometimes unfathomable to the eyes of the histrionic artist, as well as

to the sight of the audience ; and his characters are by no means always so transparent and simple as they appear at a casual glance. Indeed, many of them have something about them peculiarly enigmatical, and difficult to understand, which perpetu- ally allures toward an interpretation, but is never entirely comprehended.

Not only such persons as Hamlet, Richard III., lago, in whom peculiar thoughtfulncss, or an essential characteristic not easily understood, and single real or apparent contradictions are striking, come into this list, but such as, with superficial observation, stride away down the straight street, stage fashion. Let the judgments be tested which for a hundred years have been pronounced in Germany on the characters in Julius Ccesar, and the glad approval with which our contemporaries accept the noble effects of this piece. To the warm-hearted youth, 254 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

Brutus is the noble, patriotic hero. An honest commentator sees in Caesar, the great, the immova-

ble character, superior to all; a politician by profes- sion rejoices in the ironical, inconsiderate severity with which, from the introduction forward, the poet has treated Brutus and Cassius as impractical fools, and their conspiracy as a silly venture of incapable aristocrats. The actor of judgment, at length, finds in the same Caesar whom his commentator has held up to him as a pattern of the possessor of power, a hero inwardly wounded to death, a soul in which the illusion of greatness has devoured the very joints

and marrow. Who is right ? Each of them. And yet each of them has the notion that the characters are not entirely a mixture of incongruous elements, artfully composed, or in any way untrue. Each of them feels distinctly that they are excellently

created, live on the stage most effectively ; and the

actor himself feels this most strongly, even if the secret of Shakespeare's poetic power should not be entirely understood. Shakespeare's art of character building repre-

sents to an unusual extent and perfection, what is peculiar to the Germanic method of creation, as opposed to that of the old world, and that of those

peoples of culture, not pervaded with German life.

^=What is German is the fulness, and affectionate fervor which forms every single figure carefully, accurately, according to the needs of each individual

masterpiece of art, but considers the entire life of the figure, lying outside of the piece, and seeks THE CHARACTERS. 255 to seize upon its peculiarity. While the German conveniently casts upon the pictures of reality, the variegated threads spun by his teeming fancy, he conceives the real foundations of his characters, the actual counterpart, with philanthropic regard, and with the most exact understanding of its combined contents. This thoughtfulness, this fond devotion to the individual, and again the perfect freedom which has intercourse, for a purpose, with this image as with an esteemed friend, have, since the old times, given a peculiarly rich import to the success-

ful figures in German dramatic art ; therefore, there is in them, a wealth of single traits, a spiritual charm, a many-sidedness, through which the compactness, necessary to dramatic characters, is not destroyed, but in its effects, is greatly enhanced.

The Brutus of Shakespeare is a high-minded

gentleman, but he has been reared an aristocrat ; he

is accustomed to read and to think ; he has the enthusiasm to venture great things, but not the circumspection and prudence to put them through.

Caesar is a majestic hero who has passed a victorious, a great life, and who has proved his own excellence in a time of selfishness and pretentious weakness; but with the lofty position, which he has given himself above the heads of his contemporaries, ambition has come upon him, simulation and secret fear. The fearless man who has risked his life a hundred times and feared nothing but the appearance of being afraid, is secretly superstitious, variable, exposed to the influence of weaker men. 256 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

/The poet does not hide this ; he lets his characters, in every place, say exactly what occurs to them in such a business; but he treats their nature, as in

itself intelligible, and explains nothing ; not because

it has become distinct to him through cool calcula-

tion, but because it has arisen with a natural force

from all the presupposed conditions. To the admirer of Shakespeare, this greatness of his poetical vision presents here and there diffi-

culties. In the first part of Julius Ccesar, Casca

comes prominently into the foreground ; in the

following action of the piece, not a word is heard about him; he and the other conspirators are apparently of less consequence to Shakespeare than to the audience. But he who observes more carefully, sees the reason for this, and perceives that this figure which he made so benevolently promi-

nent at first, the poet throws aside immediately without ado. Indeed, he indicates this in the judgment which, by way of exception this time, Brutus and Cassius let fall concerning Casca. To him and

to the piece, the man is an insignificant tool. In many subordinate roles, the great poet stands

strikingly silent ; with simple strokes, he moves them forward in their embarrassment. The understanding of their nature, which we occasionally

seek, does not at last remain doubtful, but it is clear

only by streaks of light falling upon it from without. Anne's changes of mind, in Richard III., in the celebrated scene at the bier, are, in a manner, concealed.

No other poet would dare venture these ; and the THE CHARACTERS. 257 role, otherwise brief and scanty, would have been one of the most difficult. The same thing holds good of many figures which, composed of good and evil, appear to help forward the action. In the case of such roles, the poet trusts much to the actor.

Through suitable representation, the artist is able to transform many apparent and real harshnesses into new beauty. Indeed, one often has the feeling, that the poet omitted some explanatory accompaniments, because he wrote for a definite actor, whose personality was specially adapted to fill the role.

In other cases, a man is distinctly seen, who, more than any other dramatic author, is accustomed as actor and spectator to observe men in the better society, and v/ho understands how to conceal or let peep through, the characteristic weaknesses which are behind the forms of good manners. In this style, most of his courtiers are fashioned. Through such silence, through such abrupt transitions, he affords the actor more gaps to fill than any other dramatist does. Sometimes his words arc merely like the

punctured background of embroidery ; but everything lies in them exactly indicated, felt to be adapted to the highest stage effects. Then the spectator, surprised by good acting, beholds a rich, well-rounded life, where in reading, he saw only barren flatness. It once in a while happens to a poet, that he really does too little for a character.

Thus the little role of Cordelia, even with good acting, does not come into the proportion which it should bear toward the rest of the piece. Much in 258 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. some characters appears strange to us, and in need of explanation, which was transparent and easily understood by the writer's contemporaries, as a reflection of their life and their culture.

What is greatest in this part, however, is, as has already been said, the tremendous inipellin^ force which operates in his chief characters. The power with which they storm upward toward their fate, as^ far as the cHmax^f the drama, is irresistible—in almost every one a vigorous life and strong energy of passion. And when they have attained the height, from which by an overpowering might they are drawn downward in confusion, the suspense has been

relieved for a moment in a portentous deed ; then come in several passages, finished situations and individual portrayals, the most sublime that the new drama has produced. ^The dagger scene and banquet scene in Macbeth, the bridal night in Romeo and Juliet, the hovel scene in Lear, the visit to the mother in Hamlet, Coriolanus at the altar of Aufid- ius, are examples. Sometimes, the interest of the poet in the characters appears to become less from this moment ; even in Hamlet, in which the grave-

yard scene —• however celebrated its melancholy observations are —^and the close decline, when compared to the tension of the first half. In Coriolafius, the two most beautiful scenes lie in the second half of the play ; in Othello, the most powerful. This last piece, however, has other technical peculiarities. If Shakespeare's art of characterization was sometimes dark and difficult for the actors of his THE CHARACTERS. 259

time, it is natural that we perceive his peculiarities

very clearly. For no greater contrast is conceivable than his treatment of characters, and that of the German tragic poets, Lessing, Goethe, and Schiller. While in Shakespeare we are reminded through the reservedness of many accessory characters, that he still stood near the epic time of the middle ages, our dramatic characters have, even to superfluity, the qualities of a period of lyric culture, a continual, broad and agreeable presentation of internal conditions upon which the heroes reflect

with an introspection sometimes dismal ; and they use sentences which doubtless make clear the shifting point of view of the characters in relation to the moral order of things. In the German dramas, there is nothing dark, and, Kleist excepted, nothing violent.

Of all the great German poets, Lessing has best understood how to represent his characters in the surge of intense dramatic ejscitQflient. Among his contemporaries in art, the poetic power of the indi-

is according to his characters vidual most esteemed ; and in just this matter of characterization, Lessing s/ is great and admirable; the wealth of details, the effect of telling, vi^Lexpressipns, whic^^ by their beauty as well as by their truth, is, in his works, in the limited circle of his tragic figures, greater than in Goethe, more frequent than in Schil- ler. The number of his dramatic types is not great. About the tender, noble, resolute maiden, Sara, Emilia, Minna, Recha, and her vacillating 26o FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. lover, Melfort, Prince, Tellheim, Templer, the serv-

ing confidants range themselves ; the dignified father, the rival, the intriguer, are all written according to the craft of the troops of players of that time. And yet in these very types, the multiformity of the variations is wonderful. He is a master in the representatioii of such passions as express themselves in the life of the middle classes, where the struggle toward beauty and nobility of soul stands so marvellously near crude desire. And how conveniently all is thought out for the actor! No one else has so worked out of his very soul for reading, so restless and theat- him ; what seems^^Jn rically excited, comes into its right proportion only through representation on the stage. tOnly at single moments, his dialectic of passion fails to give the impression of truth, because he over-refines it and yields to a pleasure in hair-split- ting quibbles. In a few places, his reflections ex-

pand to where they do not belong ; and sometimes in the midst of a profound poetic invention, there is an artificial stroke which cools instead of strengthening the impression. Besides much in Nathan the

Wise, there is an example of this in Sara Sampson,

III. 3, the passage in which Sara discusses passionately with herself whether she shall receive her father's letter. This stroke is specially to be made

use of as a brief detail in characterization ; for this

purpose, also, it is to be treated as a suggestion ; in broad elaboration, it would be painful. For a long time yet, Lessing's pieces will be a THE CHARACTERS. 26r

fine school for the German actor ; and they will still preserve the fond respect of the artist on our stage, if only a more manly culture shall make the spectator more sensitive to the weakness of the return action in Minna von Barnhelm, and Emilia^ Ga-

Iptti. For the great man erred in this, that violent passion suffices to make a poetic character dramatic, since it depends much more on the relation in which the passion stands to power of will. His passion creates sorrow and excites sometimes in the spectator a protesting pity. Stjll his chief characters vacillate — though this is not his badge, but that of his time — driven hither and thither by

strong emotion ; and when they are brought to commit an ominous deed, this often lacks the highest justification. The tragic development in Sara

Sampson rests upon this : Melfort perpetrates the indignity of appointing a rendezvous between

his former mistress and Miss Sara ; in Emilia

Galotti, the maiden is stabbed by her father, out of caution. The freedom and the nobility with which the poetic characters of the last century express their spiritual moods, is not accompanied with a corre-

sponding mastery of performance ; only too frequently a time is perceived in which the character, even the best, was not firmly drawn out, and hard- ened to steel by a strong public opinion, by the strong, certain import which public political life gives one. Arbitrariness in the moral point of view, and sensitive uncertainty, disturb the highest >-62 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. artistic effects of even the power of genius. The reproach has often been made against Goethe's

plays that here is only indicated the progress that was introduced with dramatic effects by him and Schiller. In the characterizing details of his roles, Goethe

is not more abundant than Lessing, — Weislingen, Clavigo, Egmont, are dramatically even more scanty

than Melfort, Prince, Tellheim ; — his figures have

nothing of the violently pulsating life, of the rest-

less, feverish element, which vibrates in the emo-

tions of Lessing's characters ; nothing artificial

disturbs ; the inexhaustible charm of his spirit en-

nobles even what is lacking. In the first place, Goethe and Schiller have opened up to the Germans the historical drama, the more elevated style of

treating characters, which is indispensable to great

tragic effects, even if Goethe did not attain these effects particularly by the power of his characters, not by the action, but by the unsurpassable beauty and sublimity with which he made the spirit of his heroes ring out in words. There especially, where from his dramatic persons the hearty sincerity of

lyric feeling could ring through, is seen, in little

traits, a magic of poetry which no other German has even approximately attained. Thus operates the role of Gretchen.

It is not by chance that such supreme beauty in

Goethe's female characters is effective ; the men do

not, as a rule, drive forward ; they are driven ; indeed, they sometimes claim a sympathy on the !

THE CHARACTERS. 263

stage, which they do not merit, and appear as good

friends of the poet himself ; and their good qualities are known only to him, because they do not turn their good side to the society into which he has invited them. What makes Faust our greatest

poetic masterpiece is not its fulness of dramatic

life, least of all, in the role of Faust himself. If,

however, the impelling force of Goethe's heroes is not powerful enough to make sublime effects and mighty conflicts possible, their dramatic movement

in single scenes is compact, skilful and adapted to

the stage ; and the connection of the dialogue is admirable. For the greatest beauty of Goethe's

plays is the scenes which have their course between two persons. Lessing understands how to occupy three persons on the stage, with great effect, in pas-

sionate counter-play ; but Schiller directs a great

number with • firmness, and superior certainty. Schiller's method of delineating character in his

youth is very different from the method of his riper years. He shows great progress, but not entirely without loss. What a transformation from his conception of beautiful souls which in The Robbers he erected into something monstrous, and later into the heroic, and at last in Demetrius, into the firm compactness of character similar to that of Shakes- peare's persons During more than half a century, the splendor and nobility of Schiller's characters have ruled the

German stage ; and the weak imitators of his style have not long understood that the fulness of his 264 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. diction produced so great an effect only because beneath it there lies a wealth of dramatic life, covered as by a plating of gold. This dramatic life of his persons is already very striking in his earliest plays. In Love and Intrigue, it won such significant expression, that in this direction in later works, an advance is not always visible. To verse and the more elevated style, he has added at least pithy bj^evity, an expression of passion suitable to the stage, and many a consideration for the actor. His expression of feelings and perceptions becomes continually fuller in speech and more eloquent. His characters, also, — specially the fully elaborated ones, — have that peculiar quality of his time, impressively to enunciate to the hearer their thought and feeling at many moments in the action. And they do it in the manner of highly cultured and contemplative men ; for a beautiful, and often a finished picture, depends for them on passionate feeling; and_ the mood which sounds forth from their souls is followed by a meditation, an observation,^- as we all know, often of highest beality,— through which the moral grounds of the excited feeling is made clear, and the confusion, the embarrassment of the situation, through an elevation to a higher standpoint, appears for the moment cleared away. It is evident that such a method of dramatic creation, of the representation of strong passion, is in general not favorable, and will certainly in some future period cease to appear among our successors. But it is just as certain that THE CHARACTERS. 265

it perfectly repeats the manner of feeling and perceiving which was peculiar to the cultured Germans at the end of the last century, as no other poetic method does, and that upon it rests a part of the effect which Schiller's dramas produce to-day upon

the people ; certainly only a part, for the greatness of the poet lies in this, that he who accords to his characters so many resting places, even in excited movements, knows how to keep these in

extreme tension ; ahnost all have a strong, inspired, inner life, a content with which they stand securely against the outer^jworld. In this embarrassment, they sometimes give the impression of somnambu- lists, to whom a disturbance from the outer world becomes fatal ; thus the Maid, Wallenstein, Max,

Thekla ; or who at least need a strong shock to their inner life, to be brought to a deed, like Tell, even Caesar and Manuel. Therefore, "^ the impassioned agitation of Schiller's chief characters, is in the last

analysis, not always dramatic ; but this imperfection is often covered by the rich detail and beautiful characterization with which he equips the accessory figures. Finally, the greatest advance which Ger- man art has made through him, is that in a powerful tragic material, he makes his persons participants in an action which has for its background, not the relations of private life, but the highest^interests of man, of the state, of faith. His beauty and power will always be dangerous to young poets and actors, because the inner life of his characters streams forth richly in speech. In this, he does so much 266 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. that there remains, often, little for the actor to do ; his plays need less from the stage than those of any other poet.

11.

THE CHARACTERS IN THE MATERIAL, AND ON THE STAGE.

Both the rights and the duty of the poet compel him, during his labor, to an incessant conflict with the pictures which history, the epic,, and his own

life offer him.

It is undeniable that ardor and the charm of

invention, are frequently first given to the German poet by his characters. Such a method of creation appears irreconcilable with the old fundamental law for the forming of the action, that the action must

be the first, the characters second. If pleasure in the characteristic nature of the hero can cause the

poet to compose an action for it, the action stands

under the dominion of the character, is fashioned

through it, is invented for it. The contradiction is

only an apparent one ; for to the creating genius, the disposition and character of a hero do not appear as they do to the historian, who at the end

of his work draws the results of a life, or as they appear to a reader of history, who from the impressions of different adventures and deeds, gradually paints for himself the portrait of a man."" The creative power comes into the ardent mind of the poet more ^ in such a way, that it brings out vividly and with charm, the character of a hero, in single THE CHARACTERS. 267

*floments of its relations to other men. These moments in which the character becomes a living thing, are in the work of the epic poet, situations; in the work of the dramatist, actions in which the

hero proceeds with some commotion ; they are the foundations of the action, not yet connected and

full of life ; in them, already the idea of the piece

lies, probably not yet clarified and separate. But

it is always a presumption of this first beginning of poetic work, that the___chara£JteiL-b.e.CQmes a living, aniniated thing under the compulsion of some part o_f_the action.. Only under such a presumption is a poetic conception of it possible. But the process of idealization begins in this

ivay : the outlines of the historic character, or character otherwise deemed of worth, fashion themselves according to the demands of the situation which has appeared in the soul of the poet. The trait of character which is useful to the invented moments of the action, becomes a fundamental trait of the being, to which all the remaining characteristic peculiarities are subordinated as supplementary adjuncts.

Suppose the poet is to grasp the character of Em- peror Charles V.; he is able to perceive him poetically only when he makes him pass through a definite action. The emperor at the parliament of Worms, or standing over against the captive king, Francis, or in the scene in which the Landgrave of Hesse prostrates himself at Halle, or at the moment when he receives the news of the threat- ened incursion of the elector Moritz, —the emperor ;

268 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. under the pressure of each of these situations, is

every time quite a different person ; he retains all

the features of the historical Charles ; but his expression becomes a peculiar one, and so dominates the entire picture that it cannot pass for a historic portrait. Yet the transformation quickly goes further. To the first poetic vision others are joined there is a struggle to become a whole, it contains beginning and end. And each new member of the action, which develops itself, forces upon the character something of color and motive, which are necessary to its understanding. If the action is directed in this way, the real character is fully transformed under the hand of the poet, according to the needs of his idea. Of course the creative artist, all this time, during his entire work, carries in his soul the features of. the real person, as an accessory picture or counter-portrait. He takes from this what he can use in details ; but what he creates from this, is brought out freely according to the demands of his action, and with additions of its own is molten to a new mass.

A striking example is the character of Wallen- stein in Schiller's double drama. It is no accident that the figure in the poem was fashioned so different from that of the historical picture of the imperial general. The demands of the action have given him his appearance. The poet is interested in the

historical Wallenstein ; since the death of Gustavus Adolphus, this man has become enchanting. He has great plans, is a magnificent egotist, and has an ;

THE CHARACTERS. 269 unclouded conception of the political situation. Now a drama the business of which was to portray the end of his career, had the fewest possible presupposed conditions to represent, as the hero becomes a traitor by degrees, through his own guilt, and under the stress of his relations. Schiller saw in his mind's eye the figure of Wallenstein, as from premonitions it seeks to learn its fate (probably the first vision), then as it comes in contact with Ques- tenberg, then with Wra'ngel, then as the loyal men free themselves from him. These were the first moments of action. Now it was conceivable that such a criminal beginning, if the plans miscarried, would show the hero actually weaker, more short- sighted, smaller, than the opposing powers. There- fore, in order to preserve his greatness and maintain interest in him, a leading, fundamental trait of character must be invented for him, which should elevate him, and prove him free and independent, self-active before what allured him to treason, and which should explain how an eminent and superior man could be more short-sighted than those about him. In the real Wallenstein, there was something

of this kind to be found ; he was superstitious, believed in astrology — but not more than his contemporaries. This trait could be made poetically useful. But as a little motive, as a thing to wonder at in his character, it would have been of little use it had to be ennobled, spiritually refined. So there arose the image of a thoughtful, inspired, elevated man, who in a time of carnage, strides over human 270 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

life and human rights, his eye turned fixedly toward the heights where he believes he sees the silent rulers of his destiny. And the same sad, dreary playing with the inconceivably great, could exalt him out of, and above external relations ; for the same fundamental characteristic of his being, a certain inclination to equivocal and underhand dealing, groping attempts and a feeling about, might gradually entangle him, the freeman, in the net of trea-

son. Thus a dramatic movement of its own kind was found for his inward being. But this character-

istic of his being was, in its essential nature, yet an

irrational force ; it held spell-bound ; it placed him,

for us, near the supernatural ; it remained a great anomaly. In order to work tragically, the same characteristic must be brought into relation with the best and most amiable feelings of his heart. That belief in the revelations of powers incomprehensible to the hero, consecrates the friendly relations to

the Piccolomini ; that this same belief is not called out, but ominously advanced, by a secret need of something to honor, something to trust, and that this trust in men, which Wallenstein has confidently made clear through his faith; that this faith must destroy him,—this brings the strange figure very near to our hearts ; it gives the action inner unity ; it gives the character greater intensity. In such a way, the first-found situations, and the necessity of bringing them into an established connection of cause and effect, and to round them out to a dramatically effective action, have transformed the his- THE CHARACTERS. 271 torical character feature by feature. So his adversary, Octavio, too, has been transformed by the tendency to give an inner connection with Wallen- stein, of course in dependence on his character. A cold intriguer, who draws together the net over those who trust him, would not have sufficed ; he must be exalted, and be placed intellectually near the chief hero ; and if he were conceived as friend of the de- luded one, who,—no matter from what sense of duty, —surrenders the friend, so it would be to the purpose to invent a trait of character in his life, which should weave his destiny with that of Wallenstein. Since there was needed in this gloomy material, a warmer life, brighter colors, a succession of gentle and touching feelings, the author created Max. This poor, unsuspecting child of the camp, was at once the opposite of his father and of his general.

The poet cared too little, with respect to this figure, that it stood a fresh, harmless, unspotted nature, in contradiction to its own presupposed conditions, and to the unbridled life of a soldier, in which it had

grown up ; for Schiller was not at all careful to give motive to anything, if it only served his purpose.

It satisfied him that this being, through character and aptness, could come into a noble and sharply- cut contrast with the hero and his opponent; and so him, and the corresponding figure of his beloved, the poet produced with a fondness which determined even the form of the drama.

Considered on the whole, then, it was not a freak, a chance discovery of the poet, which 272 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. formed the character of Wallenstein and his counter-player. But of course, these persons, like every poetic image, are colored by the personality of the poet. And it is characteristic of Schiller to imbue all his heroes visibly with the thoughts which fill his own soul. This spirited contemplation, as well as the great, simple lines of a broad design, we perceive already as his peculiarity. The characteristic of his age was quite otherwise.

Mastery in meditation and pondering is not, in Wallenstein, brought into equilibrium by a decisive power of will. That he listened to the voice of the stars, which at last becomes the voice of his own heart, would be expected. But he is represented as dependent on his environment. The Countess

Terzky directs him ; Max re-directs him ; and the accident that Wrangel has disappeared, hinders, possibly, a reverse of results. Surely it was Schil- ler's purpose to make prominent Wallenstein's lack

of resolution ; but vacillation is, with us, a disadvantage, to be used for every hero of a play, only as a sharp contrast to a sustained power of action.

if this process of deriving the character from the internal necessity of the action seems a result of intelligent consideration, it is hardly necessary to confess that it does not thus perfect itself in the warm soul of the poet. Indeed, here enters during many hours, a cool weighing, a supervision, a sup-^

plementing, of creative invention ; but the process of creation goes on still, in essentials, with a natural force in which the same thought is unconsciously THE CHARACTERS. 273 active with the poet, the same thought which we in presence of the completed masterpiece, recognize through reflection as the indwelling law of intellectual production. Not only is the transformation of historical characters according to the demands of the action, specially shown to be different in different

authors ; but the same poetic mind does not always appear equally free and unembarrassed before all its heroes. It is possible that a strong poetic power may seek, for some purpose, to represent with special care, single historical traits in the life of a hero\

In the completed work, then, this care is recognized in a peculiar wealth of appropriate features, which are valuable for purposes of characterization. Shakespeare's Henry VIII. shows a fuller portraiture than any other heroic figure of that poet's

plays. This figure is entirely transformed in essen-

tials, to conform to the needs of the action, and is separated by a wide gulf, from the historic Henry.

But what is valuable for portraiture in the sketching, as well as the numerous considerations which the poet had for real history, in constructing the action, give to the drama a strange coloring. How- ever numerous the traits in this richly endowed

character are, it will seldom appear to an actor as the most remunerative role to study. For similar reasons, the introduction and use of historical heroes whose portraits have become specially popular, for example Luther, and Fred-

erick the Great, is very difficult. The temptation is too strong to bring out such well-known traits of 274 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. the historical figure as are not essential to the action of the play, and therefore appear accidental. This addition to a single figure taken from reality, gives it in the midst of persons, the product of unfettered invention, a remarkable, a painfully pretentious, a repulsive appearance. The desire to present the most accurate reflection of the real being, will too strongly allure the actor to petty delineation. Even the spectator wants an accurate portrait, and is perhaps surprised if the other characters and the action are less effective, because he

is so strongly reminded of an esteemed friend in history.

The requirement is easily given that the dra-

matic character must be true ; that especially the life forces must be in unison with each other, and must be felt as belonging together, and that the characters must exactly correspond to the whole of the action, in respect to coloring and* spiritual im-

port. But such a rule, so generally expressed, will,

in many cases, afford the beginning poet no aid, where the discord between the ultimate demands of his art, and of the historian's art, and even of many a poetic truth, prepares secret difficulties.

It is understood that the poet will faithfully preserve the deliverances of history, where they are of service to him and cause no derangement. For our time, so advanced in historical culture and in the knowledge of the earlier relations of civilization, keeps an eye upon the historical culture of its dramatists. The poet must have care that he do not THE CHARACTERS. 275 givejus hemes tOQJlttle.Qillie. import of their own -time» and that a rnodern perception and feeling in the characters do not appear to the educated spectator in contradiction to the well-known embarrass- ments and peculiarities of the life of the soul in older times. The young poets easily lend to their heroes a knowledge of their own times, a certain skill in philosophizing upon the most important occurrences, and in finding such points of view for their deeds as are current in historical works of modern times. It is uncomfortable to hear an old emperor of the Franconian or Hohenstaufen line express the tendencies of his time, so self-consciously, so for a purpose, so very shrewdly as, for instance, Stenzel and Raumer have represented.

But not less dangerous is the opposite temptation into which poets come through the effort vividly to set forth the peculiarities of the past. The remarkable, that which deflects from our own nature toward older times, easily seems to them as characteristic and effective for their purpose. Then the poet is in danger of smothering the immediate interest which we take in the easily intelligible, the universally human, and in still greater danger of building the course of his action upon singularities of that past, on the transitory, which in art gives the impression of the accidental and arbitrary. And yet there often remains, in an historical piece, an inevitable opposition between the dramatically arranged characters and the dramatically arranged action. At this dangerous point, it is profitable to 276 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. tarry a little. Since it is a duty of the poet who uses historical material, to give special attention to what we call the color and costume of the time, and since not only the characters but the action, too, is taken from a distant age, there will certainly be, in the idea of the piece and of the action, in the motives and situations, much that is not universally human and intelligible to every one, but that is explained through what is remarkable and characteristic of that time. When, for instance, the murder of a king is committed by ambitious heroes, as in Macbeth or Richard, where the intriguer attacks his rival with poison or dagger, where the wife of a prince is thrown into water because she springs from the middle class, — in these and innumerable other cases, the embarrassment and the destiny of the heroes must be derived from the represented event, from the peculiarities and customs of their times. If these figures belong to a time which has here been called the epic, in which man's inward freedom has been in reality little developed, in which the dependence of the individual upon the example of others, upon custom and usage, is much greater, in which man's inaer being is not poorer in strong feeling, but is much poorer in the ability to express it by means of speech,— then the characters of the drama can not at all represent, in the essential thing, such an embarrassment. For since upon the sta^e, the effect is produced not by deeds, not by beautiful discourse, but by the exJaibitiQa of aneiital THE CHARACTERS. 277 processes, through which feeling and volition are concentrated into a deed, the dramatic chief characters must show a degree pi. freedom of will, a refinement and a dialectic of passion, which stand in the most essential contrast with the actual embarrassment and naivete of their old prototypes in reality. Now the artist would, of course, be easily for- given for endowing his people with a fuller, stronger, and richer life than they had in the real world, if only this richer fulness did not give the impression of untruth, because individual conditions presupposed for the action, do not tolerate a character so constructed. For the action which is derived from history or from legend, and which everywhere betrays the social features, the degree of culture, the peculiarities of its time, the poet cannot always so easily imbue with a deeper import as he can individual characters. The poet may, for example, put into the mouth of an oriental the finest thoughts, the tenderest feelings of the sweetest passion, and yet so color the character that it contains the beautiful appearance of poetic truth. But now, perhaps the action makes it necessary that this same character have the women of his harem drowned in sacks, or have them beheaded. Then the contradiction between action and character crops out inevitably. This is, indeed, a difficulty of dramatic creation which cannot always be met, even by the greatest talent in that direction. Then it requires all art to conceal from the spectator the latent contradiction between the material and the vital needs 278 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. of the action. For this reason, all love scenes in historic pieces present peculiar difificulties. Here, where we demand the most direct expression of a lovely passion, it is a difficult task to give at the same time the local color. The poet is most likely to succeed if, as in the case of Goethe and Gretchen, he can. in such a situation, paint peculiarities of character in a stronger color, and even approach the borders of genre painting. The quiet struggle of the poet with the assumptions of his subject-matter, which are undramatic and yet not to be dispensed with, occurs in almost every action taken from heroic legend or the older histories. In the epic material which the heroic legends of

the great civilized races offer, the action is already

artistically arranged, even if according to other than

dramatic requirements. The life and adventures of heroes appear complete, determined by momentous

deeds ; usually, the sequence of events in which they appear acting or enduring, forms a chain of

considerable length ; but it is possible to detach single links for the use of the drama. The heroes themselves float indistinctly in great outlines, while single characteristic peculiarities are powerfully developed. They stand upon the heights of their nationality, and display a power and greatness as sublime and peculiar as the creative phantasy of a

people can invent ; and the momentous results of their lives are frequently just what the dramatic poet seeks, — love and hate, selfish desire, conflict and destruction. THE CHARACTERS. 279

Such materials are further consecrated through the fondest recollections of a people ; they were once the pride, joy, entertainment of millions. After their transformation through a creative popular spirit, which lasted for centuries, they were still flexible enough to afford to the invention of the dramatic poet opportunity for the intensification of character, as well as for alterations in the connection of the action. Many of them have come to us with the elaboration which they underwent in a

great epic ; the most of them, in their essential contents, are not, even according to our culture, entirely strange to us. What is here said is more or less applicable to the great cycles of Greek legends, of the legendary traditions which are interwoven with the earliest history of the Romans, of the heroic tales of the Germans, and Latins of the Middle Ages. Indeed, upon a closer inspection, the characters of the epic tradition differ much from the persons necessary to the drama. It is true, the heroes of Homer and of the Nibelungefi Lied are quite distinct personalities. A glance into the interior of a human soul, into the surging feeling, is not entirely forbidden to epic poets ; indeed they often derive

the fate of the hero from his character ; they derive his ominous deeds from his passions. In the poetry of early times, the knowledge of the human heart, and the sane judgment which might explain a man's destiny from his virtues, faults, and passions,

are admirable. Not so well developed is the capa- 28o FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. bility of representing the details of mental processes.

The life of the persons expresses itself in little anecdotal traits which are often perceived with a

surprising fineness : what lies before, the quiet labor within, what follows after such a deed, the quiet effect on the soul, is passed over or quickly disposed of.

How a man asserts himself among strangers, is victorious, or perishes in a strife with stronger powers which stand against him,— to relate this is the chief charm ; also, describing high festivals, duels, battles, adventures of travel. The expression of feeling is most animated where the suffering man rebels against the unendurable; but here, too, the expression becomes rigid, relatively unanimated, in frequently recurring forms, complaints, prayer to the gods, perhaps so that the speaker holds up another's fate in contrast with his own, or mirrors his situation in an elaborate picture. The speech of the hero is almost always scanty, simple, monot- onous, with the same recurring notes of feeling. Thus the soliloquies of Odysseus and of Penelope are made in the poem, in which the peculiar life is most richly represented, and with the best individual traits. Where the inner connecti9n of events rests upon the secret plots and the peculiar passion of a single person, also where a momentous action is developed from the inward being of a character, the analysis of the passion is scarcely at hand. Kriemhild's plan to take revenge for the murder of her husband, all the emotions of soul of this most THE CHARACTERS. 281 enchanting person, who lives so powerfully in the poet's heart,— how brief, and concealed they are in the narrative ! It is characteristic that in these German poems, the lyric accompaniments, monologues, complaints, genial observations, are much less numerous than in the Odyssey; on the other hand, every peculiarity of the chief characters, which determines their friendship or hostility to others, is elaborated with special vividness and beauty. But as soon as one conceives of these powerful, shadowy forms of legend as human beings, and represented to human beings by human beings on the stage, they lose the dignity and magnitude of outline, with which the busied imagination has clothed them. Their speeches, which within epic narrative {produce the most powerful effects, are in the iambics of the stage, circumscribed, heavy, common- place. Their deeds seem to us crude, barbarous,

dreary, indeed quite impossible ; they seem sometimes like the old water sprites and goblins of ancient folk-lore, with no human and rational soul.

The first work of the poet must be a transformation and intensifying of characters, by which they may become human and intelligible to us. We know how attractive such labor was to the Greeks. Their relation to the material in their old heroic tales was peculiarly favorable. It was bound to the life of their present by a thousand threads, by local traditions, divine service, and the plastic arts. The more liberal culture of their times allowed im- 282 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

portant changes to be made ; allowed what was transferred to them to be treated with the utmost freedom as raw material. And yet, the history of) the Attic tragedy is the history of an inward war-( fare, which great poets waged with a realm of ma-| terial that so much the more violently resisted thej fundamental laws of dramatic creation, as the-

actor's art developed, and the demand of the audi- > ence for a richer i.ullLess.Qlcharacterin^^

Euripides is our most instructive example of how the Greek tragedy was disorganized by the internal opposition between its field of material and the greater requisites which the art of representation gradually brought into operation. None of his great predecessors understands better than he, how to imbue the persons of the epic legend with burning, soul-devouring passion. None has ventured to bring dramatic characters so realistically near the sensibility and the understanding of his audience ; none has done so much to aid the actor's art.

Everywhere in his pieces, it is perceived distinctly that the actor and the needs of the stage have won significance. But the treatment of his roles, effective from the actor's point of view, an advance in itself, the undeniable right of the acting drama, yet contributed in this way to depreciate his pieces. What was wild and barbarous in the action must

strike as repulsive, if persons like the Athenians of the poet's ov/n time, were made to think and feel and act like ungovernable Scythians. His Electra THE CHARACTERS. 283 is an oppressed woman from a noble house, who in need, has married a poor but worthy peasant, and perceives with astonishment that beneath his tunic,

a brave heart beats ; but we can scarcely believe her assurance that she is the daughter of the dead

Agamemnon. When in Iphigeiiia i?i Aulis, mother and daughter, entreating aid, place their hands on the chins of Achilles and Agamemnon, and taking an oath, according to the custom of their people,

seek to soften these men ; and when Achilles refuses his hand to Clytemnestra, who greets him, —this imitative invention was in itself an excellent histrionic motive ; but it stood in striking contrast to the customary movement of the masked and

draped persons ; and while this advance of the actor's art no doubt powerfully enhanced the effects of the scenes, in the eyes of the audience, it reduced Iphigenia at the same time to an oppressed Athe- nian woman, and made the proposed slaughtering of her more strange and untrue. In many other cases, the poet yields so far to the desire of his player of pathos parts, for great song effects, that suddenly and without motive, he interrupts the intelligible and agreeable course of his action, by illuminating some old heroic trait, by ragings, by child murder and the like'N. With this intrusion of opera-like and spectacular' effects, the causative connection of events becomes a subordinate matter, the tragic momentum is lost,_the persons become vessels for different kinds of feeling; and sportive and :

284 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. sophistical, they are freed from any pressure from their past lives. In almost every piece, it can be felt that the poet finds his material from old legends, torn into fragments like a rotten web, through a well justified climax of stage effects, and entirely unserviceable for the establishing of a unified dramatic action. If pieces from other contemporaries had been preserved for us, we should probably recognize how others have struggled to secure a reconciliation between the given material and the vital requisites of their art. It must be repeated what detracts from the poetic greatness of Euri- pides is not specially the lack of morale, of the man-

ners and habits of the time, so peculiar to him ; but

it is the natural and inevitable disorganization which must come into the material used in a drama, but not essentially dramatic. Of course, the repeated use of the same material contributed to bring the disadvantage to light; for the later poets, who came upon great dramatic treatment of almost all the legends, had pressing occasion to win their audiences by something new, something charming, and they found this in setting a new and higher task for

the art of the actor ; but this adequate advance hastened the destruction of the action, and thereby, of the roles. We Germans are far more unfavorable to the

it is in ruins. Even epic legend ; for us a world

where our science has spread knowledge of it, throughout broad circles, as of Homer and The

Nibelungen, the knowledge and the enjoyment of it THE CHARACTERS. 285 are the prerogative of the learned. Our stage has become much more realistic than that of the Greeks, and demands in the characters far richer individual traits, an import not painfully wounding to our sensibilities. If upon our stage, Tristan had married one woman to conceal his relations with another woman, the actor of his part would incur the danger of being pelted with apples from the gallery, as a low-lived monster ; and the bridal night of Brunhild, so effectively portrayed in the ej)ic, will always awaken on the stage a dangerous mood in the minds of the spectators. To us Ger- mans, history has become a more important source of dramatic subjects than the legend. For a majority of the younger poets, the history of the

Middle Ages is the magic fountain from Vv^hich they draw their plays. And yet, in the life of our German ancestors, there lies something difficult to understand, something that hides the heroes of the

Middle Ages as with a mist, — indeed still more the circumstances of the people,— and that makes a princely scion in the time of Otto the Great, less transparent than a Roman prince in the time of the Second Punic War. The lack of independence of

the man is far greater ; every individual is more strongly influenced by the views and customs of the circle in which he moves. The impressions that fall upon the soul from without, are quickly covered with a new tissue, given a new shape, receive a new color, by the exercise of an active imagination.

Indeed, the activity of sense is incisive, energetic ; •

286 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. but the life of nature, the person's own life and the impulse from others, are conceived far less according to an intelligible consistency of appearances, than transformed according to the intellectual demands. The egotism of the individual easily rears itself, and assumes the attitude of battle just as ready is its ; submission to a superior force. The original simplicity of a child may be combined in the same man with effective cunning and with vices which we are accustomed to consider the outgrowth of a corrupt civilization. And this combination as well as the union of the — apparently — strongest contradictions in feeling and way of dealing, are found in the leaders of the people as well as among ordinary men and wpmen.

It is evident that in this way, the judgment concerning characters, their worth or worthlessness, their individual actions, concerning moods and motives of actions, is rendered difficult. We are to judge th^ man according to the civilization and moral feeling of his time, and judge his time according to the civilization and morals of our own.

Let it be tried to make a mental picture of the average morality among the people in any one of the earlier centuries of the Middle

Ages, and it will be perceived how difficult this is. Could we judge from the penalties which the oldest popular justice inflicted upon all kinds of abominable crimes, or from the horrible practices at the Court of the Merovingians ? There was still almost nothing of what we call public THE CHARACTERS. 287 opinion, and we can say with positiveness that the historians give us the impression of men who merit confidence. When a royal scion arose in repeated rebellion against his father, to what extent was he justified or pardoned because of the notions of his time,, or his own inmost motives ? Even in the case of events which seem very clear and are received by us in a dazzling light, we perceive a lack in our comprehension, not only because we know too little of that time, but also because we do not always understand what has come down to us, as the dramatic poet must understand It, in its causative connections and in its origin in the germ of a human life. Whoever would not more carefully investigate the real relations and the historical character of his hero, but would only make use of his name, in order to provide some events of his time, with bold observations on the stage, according to the report of a convenient historical work, would avoid every difficulty. But he would, in fact, hardly find a dramatic material. For this noble mass of dramatic material is embedded in the rock of history, and almost always only where the private, familiar life

of the heroic character begins ; there one must know how to look for it. If one really takes pains to become acquainted as well as possible with the heroes of the distant past, one discovers in their nature something very undramatic. For as it is characteristic of those epic poems, it is characteristic also of historical life, 288 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. that the inward struggle of man, his feelings, his thoughts, the existence of his will, have found

from the hero himself no expression ; nor have they found expression from an observer. The people, its poets, its historians, see the man sharply

and well at the moment of his deed ; they perceive — at least the Germans — with great pene- tration, what is characteristic of the expressions of his life, as connected with emotion, with exaltation, with caprice, with disinclination. But only the moments in which his life turns toward the external, are attractive, enchanting, intelligible, to that time. Even speech has but a meager expression for the mner processes up to the deed; even passionate excitement is best enjoyed in the effect which it has upon others, and in the light which it throws upon the environment. For the intellectual conditions, and the reaction which the occurrences have upon the sensibilities and character of the man, every technique of^ representation fails, interest fails. Even the depiction of apparent characteristic peculiarities, as well as a full elaboration of the occurrence, is not

frequent in the narrative ; a comparatively dry rehearsal of events is interrupted more or less by anecdotes, in which a single vital trait of importance to a contemporary, comes to view, — here a striking word, there a mighty deed. Preferably in such legends, remain the recollections which the people preserve of their leader and his deeds. We know that till after the Reformation, indeed, till after the middle of the last century, this same no- ;

THE CHARACTERS. 289 tion was not infrequent among educated people, and that it has not disappeared yet from among our people.

The poverty of dramatic life makes difficult to the poet the understanding and the portrayal of every hero. But in the temper of our ancestors, there was something very peculiar, something which made their character at times quite mysterious. Already in the most ancient heroic times, they evince in character, in speech, in poetry, in customs, the inclination to make prevalent a peculiar subtle introspection and interpretation. Not the things themselves, but what they signify, was the chief thing to the ancestors of our thinkers. The images of the external world press multitudinously into the soul of the old Germans, who are more versatile, quicker to recognize, endowed with greater receptivity, than any other people on earth. But not in the beautiful, quiet, clear manner of the Greeks, nor with the sure, practical, limited one-sidedness of the Romans, did what was received mirror itself again in speech

and action ; they worked it over slowly and quietly and what flowed from them had a strong subjective coloring, and an addition from their own spirit, which we might, in the earliest times, call lyric. Therefore the oldest poetry of the Germans stands in most striking contrast to the epic of the Greeks ; its chief affair is not the rich, full narrative of the action, but a sharp relief of single, brilliant traits, the connecting of the force to an elaborate image, a representation in short, abrupt waves, upon which 290 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. is recognized the excited mind of the narrator. So in the characters, the defiant self-seeking, combined with a surrender to ideal perceptions, has given to the Germans since prehistoric time, a striking im- print, and has made themselves, rather than their physical power and martial rage, a terror to the Romans. No other popular morality has conceived

of woman so chastely and nobly ; no pagan faith has overcome the fear of death, as the German

faith has ; for to die on the battlefield is the Ger- man hero's honor and joy. Through this prominence of spirit and courage, of ideal perception and feeling, the characters of German heroes very early receive in life, as in the epic, a less simple composition, an original, sometimes a wonderful stamp, which lends them, now a remarkable greatness and depth, now an adventurous and unreasonable appearance. Let no one compare the poetic value of delineation, but the foundations of character, in the heroes of the Iliad and the Odyssey, with the heroes in the Nibelungen Lied. To the bravest Greek, death

remained a terror ; the danger of battle weighed him

down ; it was not dishonorable to him, in one sense,

to slay a sleeping or unarmed foe ; it was by no means the least renown prudently to avoid the danger of confliict, and strike from behind an unsuspecting victim. The German hero, on the contrary, the same one who from fidelity to his commander performs the most atrocious act which a German can, and cunningly hits an unarmed man from be- THE CHARACTERS. 291 hind,— just such a one can avoid death and destruction for himself, for his lord and for his posterity, if he only announces at the right time that danger is at hand. Supernatural beings have prophesied destruction for him and his friends, if the momentous

is continued yet he thrusts back into journey ; the the boats which make a return possible stream ; again, at the king's court, where death threatens him, a word to the benevolent king, an honest answer to a serious question, may divert the worst from him, but he keeps silent. Still more : he and his friends deride and enrage his embittered ene-

mies ; and with the certain prospect of death, they playfully challenge and incite to bloody strife. To the Greek, to every other people of antiquity, possibly with the exception of the Gauls, such a kind of heroism would appear thoroughly unearthly

and unreasonable ; but it was true German, the wild, dark expression, the character of a nation in which to the individual, his honor and his pride were of more account than his life. Not otherwise is this consideration with historical heroes. The ideals which rule their lives, however unreasonable they were long before the development of chivalry, the duty of honor, of fidelity, the feeling of manly pride and of one's own dignity, contempt for death, and love for individual men, often had a strength and power which we can scarcely appreciate, and do not always recognize as the governing motive. Thus swings the soul of the German in the

ancient times, in a bondage which to us is often no ;

292 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

longer recognizable pious surrender and longing, ; -superstition, and fidelity to duty, a secret magic word, or secret oath, advanced his resolution to deeds which we try vainly to explain on reasonable grounds taken from our civilization. And into such a disposition eventuated, in the Middle Ages, the great cycle of moods, laws, and fantastic reveries, which surged in with Christendom. While on one side, the incisive contrast in which the gentle faith of renunciation stood to the rude incli- nations of a victorious, war-like people, the contradiction between duty and inclination, between

external and internal life, increased greatly, it corresponded on the other side in a striking manner, to the necessity of giving one's self entirely to great ideas, which the German had long practiced. When mstead of Wuotan and the slain Ase-god, the Father of the Christians and his only begotten Son came when in place of the battle-virgins the hosts of The Holy One came, the life after death received a new consecration and a more sincere significance. And to the old powers, which in quietness had controlled human volition, to the magic word, to the approaching animal, to the drinking-bout, to the premonitions of heathen priests, and the prophesies of wise

women, came the demands of the new church, its

blessing and its curse, its vows and its shrifts, the priests and the monks. Following close on rude, reckless dissipation, came passionate repentance, and the strictest asceticism. Near the houses of beautiful women, were reared the cloisters of the THE CHARACTERS. 293

nuns. How, since the dominion of the Christian faith, characters have been drawn in their deepest

principles ; how perception and motives of action have become more manifold, more profound and

artistic, is shown, for instance, by the numerous figures from the time of the Saxon Emperor, where pious devotion was practiced by the most distinguished persons, and men and women were driven hither and thither, now by efforts to win the world for themselves, now by the penitent wish to recon- cile heaven to themselves. Any one who has ever felt the difficulty of understanding the men of the Middle Ages, who were formed by the thoughtful nature of the Ger- mans and by the old church, will complete these brief suggestions in every direction.

Here, therefore, a former example is repeated, but from another point of view. What was working in the soul of Henry IV. as he stood in the penitent's frock by the castle wall of Canossa? In order that the poet may answer this question by a noble art effect, he will first let the historian tell what he knows about it; and he will learn with astonishment how different the conception of the situation, how uncertain and scanty the received account, and how troublesome and difficult it is to sound the heart of his hero. That he did not go to the pope with inward con- trition, this haughty powerful man, who hated, in the Romish priest, his most dangerous opponent, is easy to comprehend. That he had long revolved. 294 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. in his rebellious mind the bitter necessity of this step, and had not put on the penitent's garment without a grim mental reservation, is to be assumed. But he came just as little as a crafty politician, who humiliated himself by a cool calculation, because he perceived a false step of his opponent, and saw growing from this surrender, the fruits of future victory. For Henry was a Christian of the Middle Ages. However intensely he hated Gregory, the curse of the church certainly had in it something uncomfortable, something frightful ; to his God, and to the heaven of the Christian, there was no other way than through the church. Gregory sat on the bridge to heaven ; and if he forbade, the angels, the new battle-virgins of the Christian, would not lead the dead warrior before the throne of the Father, but would thrust him into the abyss of the old dragon. The pope writes that the emperor has wept much, and besought his mercy, and that the attendants of the pope have with sobs and tears witnessed the emperor's penance. Was the emperor firm in the faith that the pope had the right thus to torment him? This influence of the ecclesiastical conscience upon worldly aims, this adventurous and uncertain mingling of opposites, now pride, higher thought, enduring, imperturbable power, which we consider almost superhuman, and again a lamentable emptiness and weakness, which .seems con- temptible to us, — this offers the poet no easily accomplished task. Of course he is master of his

subject ; he can transform the historical character THE CHARACTERS. 29S

at will, according to the needs of his work. It is possible that the real Henry stood before the wall of Canossa, like an ungoverncd and vicious knave, who was to undergo a severe chastising. What did the poet care for that? But just as binding as possible,

is his duty to fathom to its deepest recesses the real nature of the emperor. Not only the sad penitent, but the cold politician, will become falsities under such an examination. The poet has to form the character of the prince out of component parts, for which he does not find in his own mind the corresponding intuitions, and which he has to convert into intuitions and warm perceptions through reflection. There are few princes of the Middle Ages who do not appear, in the essential occurrences of their lives, and measured by the standard of our civilization and habits, either as short-sighted dunces, or conscienceless scoundrels — not seldom as both. The historian performs his difficult task in his unpretentious manner; he seeks to understand the connections of their time, and tells us honestly where his understanding ceases. The poet draws these adventurous persons imperatively into

the clear light of our day ; he fills their being with

warm life ; he endows them with modern speech, with a good share of reason and of the culture of

our times ; and he forgets that the action in which he has them move, is taken from a former age and can not be so much transformed, and that it accords extremely ill with the higher human endowments given his characters. 296 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

The historical materials from the dim past, and from the little known periods of our national existence, allure our young poets, as once the epic

materials allured Euripides : they mislead to the spectacular, as the epic did to declamation. Now their figures are not for this reason to be laid

aside as useless ; but the poet will ask whether the transformation which he is bound to undertake with every character of former times, is not possibly so great that all similarity to the historical person disappears, and whether the irrepressible presump- tions of the action are not inconsistent with his free creation of character. This will certainly be sometimes the case.

Not less worthy of note is the conflict which the poet must wage in his roles, with what as nature, he has to idealize. His task is to give greater expression to greater passion ; as an adjunct in this, he has the actor, — the passionate emphasis of the voice, of figure, of pantomime, of gesture. Despite all this abundant means, he may almost never, and just in the more exalted moments of passion, use the corresponding appearances of real life without great changes, however strongly and beautifully and effectively, in powerful natures, a natural passion

expresses itself, and however great an impression it may make on the accidental observer. On the

stage, the appearance is to have its effect in the distance. Even in a little theater, a comparatively

large auditorium is to be filled with the expression of passion. Just the finest accents, but of real feel- THE CHARACTERS. 297

ing in the voice, glance, even in carriage, are, on account of the distance, not at all so distinct to the

audience and enchanting as they are in real life.

And further, it is the task of the drama to make such laboring of passion intelligible and impressive

at every moment ; for it is not the passion itself vyhich produces the effect, but the dramatic portrayal

of it by means of speech and action ; it must always be the endeavor of the characters on the stage to turn their inward being toward the spectator. The poet must then make choice for effects. The transient thoughts that flit through the mind of the impassioned one, conclusions arrived at with the rapidity of lightning, the varying emotions of the soul in great numbers, which now less distinctly, now more animatedly, come into view, — to all these in their disordered fulness, their rapid course, art can not often afford even imperfect expression.

For every idea, for every strong emotion, there is

needed a certain number of words and gestures ; their union by means of transition or sharp contrast demands a purposed play ; every single moment presents itself more broadly, a careful progressive rise must take place,— in order that

the highest effect be attained. | Thus dramatic art must constantly listen to nature, but must by no means copy; nay, it_must mingle with the. single features which nature affords, something else that nature does not offer, and this as well in the speeches as in the acting. JFor poetic composition, one of the most ready helps is the wit of com- 298 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

parison, the color of the picture. / This oldest ornament of speech comes by natural necessity, everywhere, into the discourse of men, where the soul, in a lofty mood freely raises her wing. To the inspired orator, as to the poet, to every people, to every civilization, comparison and imagery are the immediate expressions of excited feeling, of powerful, spirited creation. But now it is the duty of the poet to represent with the greatest freedom and elevation the greatest embarrassment of his persons in their passions, [jit will also be inevitable that his characters, even in the moments of highest passion, evince far more of this inward creative power of speech, of unrestrained power and mastery of language, expression, and gesture, than they ever do in natural circumstances. This freedom of soul is necessary to them, a,nd the spectator demands it. And yet here lies the great danger to the poet, that! his style may seem too artificial for the passion./ Our greatest poets have often used poetic means and devices with such lavishness in moments of intense passion, as to offend good taste. '^ It is well known that Shakespeare yields too often to the inclination of his time, and in his pathetic passages makes use of mythological comparisons and splendid imagery ; on this account, there often appears in the language of his characters a bombast which we have to forget in the multitude of beautiful significant features, idealized from nature. The

great poets stand nearer German culture ; but even in their works, — among others Schiller's, — a fine THE CHARACTERS. 299 rhetoric intrudes upon pathos, which is not propi- tious to an unbiased apprehension.

If in every expression of passion, there is perceptible a contradiction between nature and art, this occurs most in the case of the most secret and genuine feelings. Here again, the love scene must be once more recalled. In real life, the expression of this sweet passion which presses from one soul to another, is so tender, is in so few words, is so modest, that in art it brings one into despair. A quick gleam from the eye, a soft tone of the voice, may express more to the loved one than all speech. Just the immediate expression of tender feeling needs words only as an accessory ; the moments of the so-called declaration of love, frequently almost without words and with action scarcely visible, will escape the notice of one standing at a distance. Only through numerous devices can the highest skill of the poet and the actor replace for the spectator the eloquent silence and the beautiful secret vibrations of passion. Right here, indeed, poets and actors must use an abundance of speech and action which is improbable in nature. The actor may, of course, enhance and supplement the l^jguage of the

poet, through tone and gesture ; but that he secure these enhancing effects, the language of the poet must lead him, and to a high degree in conformity with a purpose, furnish the motive for the effects-o£ the actor's art ; and therefore the actor requires also the creative activity of the poet, which gives, not an 300 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. imitation of reality, but something quite different, — the artistic. In the face of these difficulties which the expression of higher passion offers, if one dared to advise the poet, the best advice would be, tojremainas ^exact and true to life as his talents would allow, to compress the single moments to a strong climax, and to expand as little as possible the embellishments of reflection, comparison, imagery. For while these give fulness to the lines, they too easily cover up desultoriness and poverty of invention. If every where, constant and exact observation of nature is indispensable to the dramatic poet, it is most indis

pensable in the delineation of violent emotion ; butl the poet must know most surely that he is here-\ least of all to imitate nature. Another difficulty arises for the poet through the inner contrast into which his art of creation comes, with the art of his colleague, the actor. The poet do«es not perceive the perturbations of his characters as the reader perceives the words of the drama, nor as the actor apprehends his role. Character, scene, every force, is presented to him in the mighty rapture of creation, in such a way that the significance of each for the whole is perfectly clear ; while all that has gone before, all that comes after, vibrate as if in a gentle harmony in his mind. What reveals' the real life of his characters, what holds spellbound in the action, the effect of the scenes,— h^ perceives as alluring, and powerfully so, perhaps, long before they have found expression in words. THE CHARACTERS. 30I

The expression which he creates for them, often gives back but imperfectly to his own apprehension, the beauty and might with which they were endowed in his mind. While he is concerned in embodying in words the spiritual essence of his persons, and in creating for .them an outward form, the effect of the words which he writes being only imperfectly clear, he accustoms himself but gradu-

ally to their sound ; moreover, the enclosed space of the stage, the external appearance of his persons, the effect of a gesture, of a tone of voice, he feels only incidentally, now more, now less distinctly. On the whole, he who creates through speech, stands nearer to the demands of the reader or the hearer, than to the demands of the actor, especially if he himself is not proficient in the actor's art. The effects which he produces, then, correspond now more to the requirements of the reader, now more to those of the actor. But the poet of greater feeling and perception must give a full and strong impression through speech; and the effects which one soul produces on another are brought about thus : its internal power breaks forth in a number of speech-waves, which rise higher and mightier, and beat upon the receptive mind. This demands a certain time, and with briefer, or more powerful treatment, a certain breadth of elaboration. The actor, on the other hand, with his art, requires the stream of convinc- ing, seductive speech. Indeed, he needs the strong expression of passion, not always through speech. 302 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

His aim is to attain something through other means, the effectiveness of which the poet does not appre- hend so clearly. By mean's of a gesture of fright, of hatred, of contempt, he may often express more than the poet can with the most effective words. Impatient, he will always feel the temptation to make use of the best means of his own art. The laws of stage effects are for him and the audience sometimes different from those which are found in the soul of the creating poet. In the struggle of passion, a word, a glance, is often specially adapted to bring out the strongest pantomime effects for the

actor ; all the subsequent mental processes expressed in his speech, however poetically true in themselves, will appear to him and to his audience only as a lengthening. In this way, much is unnecessary in acting which is fully justified in writing and reading. That the actor, for his part, has the task of carefully following the poet, and as much as possible working out the poet's purposed effects, even with self-renunciation, is a matter of course. But not seldom his right is greater than that of the poet's lines, for the reason that his equipment, voice, invention, technique, even his nerves, place restrictions upon him which the poet does not find cogent. But with this right which the actor has, in view of his labor, the poet will have the more difficulties to overcome the further he keeps aloof from the stage, and the less distinct to him in single moments of his creative activity is his stage-picture of the charac- ;

THE CHARACTERS. 303 ters. He will also be obliged to make clear to himself through observation and reflection, how he may plan and present his characters rightly to the actor for the best stage effects. He must not, however, always conform to the actor's art. And since it is his duty, at his desk, to be as much as possible the guardian of the histrionic artist, he must study most earnestly the essential laws of histrionic art.

HI. MINOR RULES.

The same laws which have been enumerated for the action, apply also to the characters of the stage. These, too, must possess dramatic unity, probability, iiiiportaiii::£.and magnitude, and be fitted for a strong and progressive expression of dramatic life. The persons of the drama must exhibit only that side of human nature, by_whiGh the action is advanced and given motive. No miser, no hypocrite, is always miserly, always hypocritical ; no scoundrel betrays his degraded soul in every act he performs no one always acts consistently ; f\\Q thoughts which contend with each other in the human mind,

are of infinite variety ; the directions in which spirit, mind, volition, express themselves, are infinitely different. But the drama, like every form of art, has no right to select with freedom from the sum of all the things which characterize a man's

life, and combine them ; o nly what sej-ves the.Ldea and the action belongs to art. But only such se- 304 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. l^cted impulses in the character as belong together and are easily intelligible, will serve the action. Richard III. of England was a bloody and unscru-

pulous despot ; but he was not such always nor

toward everyone ; he was, besides, a politic prince ; and it is possible, according to history, that his reign appears, in some directions, a blessing to En- gland. If a poet sets himself the task of showing the bloody rigor and falseness of a highly endowed, misanthropic hero-nature, embodied in this character, it is understood that the traits of moderation and perhaps of benevolence, which are found to some extent in the life of this prince, the poet dare accept, only so far as they support the fundamental trait of character needed. for this idea. And_as the number of characterizing moments which he can introduce at all, is, in proportion to the reality, ex- ceedmgiy__small, every individual trait bears an entirely different relation to the aggregate than it bears in reality. But whatever is necessary in the chief figures is of value in the accessory figures.

It is understood that the texture of their souls must be so much the more easily understood, the less the space which the poet has left for them. The dramatic poet will scarcely commit great mistakes in this. Even to unskilled talent, the one side from which it has to illuminate its figures, is accustomed to be very distinct.

The first law, that of unity, admits of still another application to the characters : The drama must have only one chief hero, about whom all the THE CHARACTERS. 305

persons, however gre'at their number, arrange them- selvesJn^jlifEerent gradations. The__drama has a thoroughly rnonarchic arrangement; the unity of its action is essentially dependent on this, that the action is perfected about one dominant charactej:.^^

But also for a sure effect, the first condition is that the interest of the spectator must be directed mostly toward one person, and he must learn as early as possible who is to occupy his attention before all other characters. Since the highest dramatic processes of but few persons can be exhibited in broad elaboration, the number of great roles is limited

to a few ; and it is a common experience that nothing is more painful to the hearer than the uncertainty as to what interest he should give to each of these important persons. It is also one practical advantage of the piece to direct its effects toward a single middle point. Whoever deviates from this fundamental law must do so with the keen perception that he sur-

renders a great advantage ; and if his subject matter makes this surrender necessary, he must, in doubt, ask himself whether the uncertainty thus arising in the effects, will be counterbalanced by other dramatic advantages. xOur drama has for a long time entertained one exception. Where the relations of two lovers form the essentials of an action, these persons, bound by spiritual ties, are looked upon as enjoying equal privi- leges, and are conceived as a unit. Thus in Romeo and Juliet, Love mid Intrigue, The Piccolomini, also in 3o6 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

Troilus and Cressida. But even in this case, the poet will do well to accord to one of the two the chief part in the action ; and where this is not possible, he should base the inner development of the two upon corresponding motives. In Shakespeare, Romeo is the leading character in the first half of the play ; in the second half, Juliet leads. In Antony and Cle- opatra^ Antony is the leading character up to his death. But while in Shakespeare, Lessing, Goethe, the chief hero is unmistakable, Schiller, not to the advantage of his construction, has a peculiar inclina-

tion toward double heroes ; this appears as early as

The Robbers ; and in his later years, after his acquaintance with the ancient drama, they become still more striking, —Carlos and Posa; Mary and Eliza- beth; the hostile brothers. Max and Wallenstein;

Tell, the Swiss, and Rudenz. This inclination is easily explained. Schiller's pathetic strain had only been strengthened by his acquaintance with Greek tragedy ; not seldom in his dramas, it comes into contradiction with a greater poetic quality, dramatic energy. So under his hand, there were disjoined two tendencies of his own nature, which were transferred to two separate persons, one of whom received the pathetic part, the other the leading part of the action, the second sometimes also receiving a share in the pathos. How this division rendered less prominent the first hero, who was the pathetic character, has already been explained.

Another error the poet finds it more difficult to THE CHARACTERS. 307

avoid. The share of the persons in the advancement of the action must be so arranged, that what

they do shall have its logical basis in an easily understood trait of character, and. not in a subtlety of judgment, or in a peculiarity which seems accidental.

Above all, a decided advancement of the action must not proceed from the marvellous in a character, which has no motive, or from such weaknesses as in the eyes o^ our observant audiences lessen the enrapturing impression. Thus the catastrophe in

Etnilia Galotti, is, according to our notion, no longer tragic in a high degree, because from Emilia and her father, we demand a more virile courage. That the daughter fears being debauched, and the father, instead of seeking an escape from the castle for himself and his daughter, dagger in hand, despairs because the reputation of the daughter is already injured by the abduction, — this wounds our sensibili-

ties, however beautifully the character of Odoardo is fashioned for this catastrophe. In Lessing's time, the ideas of the public regarding the power and arbitrariness of royal rulers were so vivid, that the situa-

tion had a far different effect than it has now. And yet with such assumptions, he could have motived the murder of the daughter more powerfully. The spectator must be thoroughly convinced that any

escape for the Galotti from the castle, is impossible.

The father must seek it with the last accession of power, he must thwart the prince by violence. For

there remains still the greater disadvantage, that it was much more to Odoardo's advantage to kill the 3o8 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. rascally prince, than his own innocent daughter. That would have been more according to custom, and humanly truer. Of course this tragedy could not bear such an ending. And this is an evidence that what is worthy of consideration in the piece, lies deeper than the catastrophe. The German atmosphere in which the strong spirit of Lessing struggled, still renders the creation of great tragic effect difficult. The brave Germans, like noble Romans of the imperial time, thought, " Death makes free ?"^^

When it is unavoidable to represent the hero, in an essential respect shortsighted and limited in the face of his surroundings, the oppressive burden must be lightened^y the complementary side of his personality, which turns toward him an increased degree of respect and sympathy. This is successfully done in Goetz von Berlichinge?i and Wallenstein ; it was tried, but did not succeed in Egmont. The Greek author of The Poetics prescribed that the characters of the heroes, in order to awaken

interest must be composed of good and evil ; the law is still valid to-day, and applicable to the changed conditions of our stage. The figures, and all the material from which the German stage makes, preferably, its poetical characters, are from real life. Where the poet deems figures from legend worthy of use, he attempts more or less successfully to endow them with a more liberal humanity and a richer life, which invites to the idealization of historical characters or persons in the real world. And THE CHARACTERS. 307

the poet will be able to use every character for his drama, that makes the repxesentation of strong dramatic processes possible. Absolute and unchangeable goodness or evil are hereby excluded for

chief characters. Art, in itself, lays no further

restriction upon him ; for a character which allows the rnost po_werfullydramatic..processes to be richly-^ represented in itself, will be an artistic picture/

" whatever may be its relation to the moral import, or ; to the social views of the hearer. _ The choice of the poet is also limited, especially through his own manly character, taste, morality, habits, and also through his regard for the ideal listener, —the public. It must be of great consequence to him, to inspire his audience with admiration for his hero, and to change his audience to fellow players, following the variations and mental processes which he brings to view. In order to

maintain this sympathy, he is compelled to choqse personages which not only enrapture by the importance, magnitude, and power of their characters, but win to themselves the sentiment and taste of the audience. The poet must also understand the secret of ennobling and beautifying for his contemporaries the frightful, horrible, the base and repulsive in a character, by means of the combination which he gives it. The question for the German stage, how much dare the poet venture, is no longer doubtful since Shakespeare's time. The magic of his creative power works, perhaps, on everyone who himself r^Q FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

attempts to poetize, most powerfully through the completeness which he gave to his villains. Richard III. and lago are models, showing how beautifully the poet can fashion malevolence and wickedness. The strong vital energy, and the ironical freedom

in which they play with life, attaches to them a most significant element which compels an unwilling admiration. Both are scoundrels with no addition of a qualifying circumstance. But iji^the self- consciousness of superior natures, they control those about them with an almost superhuman power and security. On close inspection, they appear to be very differently constituted. Rkhard

is the son of a wild time full of terror, where duty passed for naught, and ambition ventured everything. The incongruity between an iron spirit and a deformed body, became for him the foundation of

a cold misanthropy. / He is a practical man, and a

prince, who does only such evil as is useful to him,

aad is merciless with a wild caprice. lago is far

more a devil. It is his joy to act wickedly ; he perpetrates wickedness with most sincere delight. He gives to himself and to others as his motive for destroying the Moor, that Othello has preferred another officer to him, and has been intimate with

his wife. All this is untrue ; and so far as it contains any truth, it is not the ultimate ground of his treachery. His chief tendency is the ardent desireil of a creative power to make attacks, to stir upjl quarrels, especially for his own use and advantage.!' He was more difficult, therefore, to be made worthy THE CHARACTERS. 311 of the drama than was the prince, the general, to whom environment, and his great purpose gave a certain importance and greatness ; and therefore Shakespeare endowed him more copiously with humor, the beautifying mood of the soul, which has the single advantage of throwing upon even the hateful and low a charming light.

is The basis of humor the unrestricted freedom , / of a well-endowed mind, which displays its superior^ power to those about it in sportive caprice. The epic poet who in his own breast, bears inclination and disposition for these effects, may exhibit them

in a twofold manner in the creatures of his art : he can make these humorists, or he can exercise his own humor on them. The tragic poet, who speaks only through his heroes^ niay of course, do only the first, because he communicates his humor to them. This modern intellectual inclination continually produces on the hearer a mighty, at the same time an enchanting and a liberating influence. For the serious drama, its employment has a difficulty. The conditions of humor are intellectual liberty,

quiet, deliberation ; the condition of the dramatic hero is embarrassment, storm, strong excitement./

The secure and comfortable playing with events is unfavorable to the advance of an excited action ; it almost inevitably draws out into a situation the ^^ scene into which it intrudes. Where, therefore, humor enters with a chief character, in order that this character may be raised above others, it must have other characteristics which prevent it from quietly ^4^ 312 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

delaying. It must have strong impelling force, and beyond this, a powerfully forward-moving action.

y Now, it is possible so to guide the humor of the

drama that it does not exclude violent commotions of the soul, so that an unobstructed view of one's

own and another's fate is enhanced, through a corresponding capability of the character to express

greater passion. But this is not to be learned. And the union of a profound intellect with the

' confidence of a secure power and with superior

fancy, is a gift which has hardly been conferred upon an author of serious dramas in Germany.

When one receives such a gift, he uses it without

care, without pains, with certainty ; he makes himself laws, and rules, and compels his admiring contemporaries to follow him. He who has not this

gift strives for it in vain, and tries in vain to paint into his scenes something of that embellishing brilliancy with which genius floods everything.

^, It was explained above, how in our drama, J:he characters must give motive to the progress of the action, and how the fate which rules them must not be anything else than the course of events brought about by the personality of these characters, — a course which must be conceived every \ moment by the hearer as reasonable and probable, however surprising individual moments may come Jo him. Right here the poet evinces his power if he knows how to fashion his characters deep and great, and conduct his action with elevated thought^,

and if he does not offer as a beautiful invention THE CHARACTERS. 313 what lies upon the beaten track of ordinary understanding, and what is next to a shallow judgment.

And with a purpose, it may be emphatically repeated, that every_ drama must be a firmly connected structure in which the connection between cause and effect form the iron clasps, and that what is irrational can, as such, have no important place at all in the modern drama. But now mention must be made of an accessory motive for the advancement of the action, a motive which was not mentioned in the former section. In individual cases, the characters may receive as a fellow-player, a shadow, which is not gladly wel- comed on our stage — the niischance. When what is being developed has been, in its essentials, grounded in the impelling personality of the characters, then it may become comprehensible that in the action, a single man is not able to guide with certainty the connection of events. When in King

Lear, the villain, Edmund ; when in A?itigone, the despot, Creon, recall the death sentences which they have pronounced, it appears as an accident that these same sentences have been executed so quickly and in such an unexpected manner. When in Wal-

Icnstein, the hero will abrogate the treaty which he has concluded with Wrangel, it is strongly emphasized with what incomprehensible suddenness the

Swede has disappeared. When in Romeo and Jtiliet^ the news of Juliet's death reaches Romeo before the message of Friar Laurence, the accident appears of decisive importance in the course of the piece. But 314 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

this intrusion of a circumstance not counted upon,

however striking it may be, is at bottom no motive

forcing itself in from without ; it is only the result of a characteristic deed of the hero. The characters have caused a portentous decision to depend on a course of events which they can no longer govern. The trap had already fallen, which

Edmund had set for the death of Cordelia ; Creon had caused Antigone to be locked up in the burial vault; whether the defiant woman awaited starvei- tion or chose a death for herself—of this he had no

longer the direction ; Wallenstein has given his fate

into the hands of an enemy ; that Wrangel had good grounds to make the resolve of the waverer irrevocable, was evident. Romeo and Juliet have come into the condition, that the possibility of their saving their lives depends on a frightful, criminal, and extremely venturesome measure, which the priest had thought of in his anguish. In this and similar cases, the accident enters only Because the characters under overpowering pressure have already lost the power of choice. For the poet

and his piece, it is no longer accident, that is, not something extraneous which bursts asunder the

joints of the action ; but it is a motive like every other, deduced from the peculiarities of the charac-

ters ; in its ultimate analysis, it is a necessary consequence of preceding events. This not ineffective

Ineans is to be used with prudence, and is to be grounded in the nature of the characters and in the actual situation. THE CHARACTERS. 315

For guiding the characters through individual acts, a few technical rules are to be observed, as has already been said. They will be brought forward, in this place, briefly, once more. Every single person of the drama is to show the fundamental traits of his character, as distinctly, as quickly, and

as attractively as possible ; and where an artistic effect lies in a concealed play of single roles, the audience must be, to a certain extent, the confidant of the poet. The later a new characteristic trait enters the action, the more carefully must the motive for it be laid in the beginning, in order that the spectator may enjoy to the full extent the pleasure of the surprise, and perceive that it corresponds exactly to the constitution of the character. Brief touches are the rule, where the chief characters have to present themselves at the beginning of the play. As a matter of course, the significant single characteristics are not to be introduced in an anecdotal manner, but to be interwoven with the action,— except that little episodes, or a modest painting of a situation, are thus allowed. The scenes at the beginningj^which give color to the piece, which prepare the moods, must also at the same time present the ground texture of the hero. Shakespeare manages this with wonderful skill. Be- fore his heroes are entangled in the difficulties of a tragic action, he likes to let them, while still unembarrassed in the introduction scenes, express the trend of their character most distinctly and charac- —

3i6 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

teristically ; Hamlet, Othello, Romeo, Brutus, Rich- ard III., illustrate.

It is not an accident that Goethe's heroes, Faust, both parts, Iphigenia, even Gotz,— are introduced in soliloquy, or in quiet conversation like

Tasso, Clavigo. Egmont enters first in the second act. Lessing follows the old custom of his stage, of introducing his heroes by means of their inti-

mates ; but Schiller again lays great stress on the characteristic representation of unembarrassed heroes. In the trilogy of Wallenstein, the nature of the hero is first presented in rich mirrorings in The

Camp, and in the first act of The Piccolomini ; but Wallenstein himself appears, introduced by the astrologer, in the circle of his family and friends, out of which during the entire play, he is seldom re- moved. It has already been said that new roles in the second half of the drama, the return action, require a peculiar treatment. The spectator is inclined to consider with mistrust the leading of the roles through new persons. The poet must take care not to distract or make impatient. Therefore the characters of the second part require a richer endowment, cltTractive presentation, most effective detailed delineation, in compact treatment. Excellent examples of elaboration are, besides those already named, Deveroux and Macdonald in Wallemtein, while Buttler, in the same piece, serves as model of a character whose active participation is saved for the last part,— not towed as a dead weight THE CHARACTERS. 317 through the first, but interwoven with its internal changes. Finally, the unpracticed playwright must take care, when it is necessary to have another person talk abouTEishero^tp attach no great. value to such exposition of the character ; and willjHilj, when it is entirely to the purpose, allow the hero to express

a judgment concerning himself ; but all that others say of a person, or what he says of himself, has little weight in comparison with what is seen coming- into being, growing in counter-play with others, in the connections of the action. Indeed, the effect may be fatal if the zealous poet commends his heroes as sublime, as joyous, as shrewd, while in the piece, in spite of the poet's wish, it is not accorded them to show these qualities. The conducting of characters through the scenes must occur with strict regard to the tableaux, or grouping, and the demands of scenic representation. For even in the conducting~6f a scene, the actor, as opposed to the poet, makes his demands prevail, and the poet does well to heed them. He stands in a delicate relation with his actor, which places obligations on both sides. In the essential thing, the aim of both is the same. Both exercise their creative power upon the same material ; the poet as a silent guide, the actor as an executive power. And the poet will soon learn that the German actor, on the whole, adapts himself with a ready fervor and zeal to the effects of the poet, and seldom bur- dens him with claims, throuo^h which he thinks to 3i8 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. place his own art in the foreground to the disadvantage of the poetry. Since, indeed, the individual actor has in his eye the effects of his role, and the poet thinks of the aggregate effect, in many cases there may be in the rehearsal of the piece, a division of interests. The poet will not always accord to his associate the better right, — if it is necessary to temper an effect, or to suppress a single character in single moments of an action. Experience teaches that the actor, in such a contradiction of the conceptions on either side, readily falls into line as soon as he receives the notion that the poet understands his own art. For the artist is accustomed to labor as a participant in a greater whole, and when he will give attention, right well perceives the highest demands of the piece. The claims which he puts forward with right, — good roles, strong effects, economy of his strength, a convenient arrangement of scenes, — must be as much a matter of concern to the poet as to him. These requirements may be traced back to two great principles, to the proposition which may be stated: The stage effect must be clear to the poet

while he is composing ; and to the short but very

imperative proposition : The poet must know how to create great dramatic effects for hjs characters. In every individual scene, specially in scenes where groups appear, the poet must keep well in mind the general appearance of the stage ; he must perceive with distinctness the positions of the persons, their movements toward and away from each other as THE CHARACTERS. 319 they occur gradually on_the stage. If more frequently than the character and the dignity of the role allow, he compels the actor to turn toward this or the other person, in order to facilitate subordinate roles, or correct them ; if he delays the motive, the transitions from one arrangement into another, from one side of the stage to another, as he pre-

sumes it to come at a later moment of the scene ; if he forces the actor into a position which does not allow him to complete his movements unrestrained and effectively, or to come into the proposed combination with a fellow actor ; if he does not remember which of his roles every time begins the play, and which continues it ; further, if he leaves one of the chief characters unoccupied for a long time on the stage, or if he attributes too much to the power of the actor,—the final result of this and similar difficulties is a representation too weak and fragmentary of the course on the stage, of the dramatic action which the poet may have perceived clear and effective in its course through his mind. In all such cases, the claims of the actor must be re- spected. And the poet will also, on this ground, give special attention to the claims of stage cus-

tom. For this, there is no better means of learning than to go with an actor through a new role which

is to be practiced, and carefully watch the rehearsal under a competent stage director. The old requirement that a poet must adapt his characters to the special line of work of the actors,

appears more awkward than it really is. Well —

320 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

established principles once current for the government of chief roles, have been abandoned by our

stage ; having once received an artist into the circle of prescriptions and prohibitions, they made

it impossible for an "intriguer" to play a role out-

side of the first rank ; and they separated the bon- vivajit from the "youthful hero," by a wide chasm, almost impassable. Meantime, there remains so

much of the custom as is useful for the actor and the stage director, in order to draw individual talent

towards its special province, and to facilitate the setting of new roles. Every actor rejoices in a certain stock of dramatic means which he has

developed within his branch : the quality of his voice, accent of speech, physical bearing, postures, control of facial muscles. Within his accustomed

limits, he moves with comparative security ; beyond them, he is uncertain. If now the poet lays claim to the accustomed readiness of different specialties

in the same role, the setting will be difficult, and the result, perhaps, doubtful. There is, for instance, an Italian party-leader of the fifteenth century, as to outsiders, sharp, sly, concealed, an unscrupulous scoundrel ; in his family, warm in feeling, dignified, honored and honorable,— no improbable mixture ; his image on the stage would strike one very differently, when the character player or the older and I dignified hero father represented him; probably in any setting, the one side of his nature would fall short.

This is no infrequent case. The advantage of THE CHARACTERS. 321 correct setting according to special capability of actors, the dangers of an inappropriate setting, can be observed in witnessing any new piece. The poet will never allow himself to be guided by such a prudent respect for the greater sureness of his results, when the formation of an unusual stage character is of importance to him. He is only to know what is most convenient for himself and his actors.

And when at last it is required of the poet that he fashion his characters effectively for the actor, this claim contains the highest requirement which can be placed upon the dramatic poet. To create effectively for the actor, means, indeed, nothing else than to create dramatically, in tlie best sense of the word. Body and soul, the actor is prepared to transform himself into conscious, creative activity, in order to body forth the most secret thought, feeling, sentiment, of will and deed. Let the poet see to it that he knows how to use worthily and perfectly this mighty stock of means for his artistic effects. And the secret of his art, — the first thing given a place in these pages and the last, — is only this : Let him delineate exactly and truly, even to details, however strongly feeling breaks forth from the private life as de^re and deed, and however strong impressions are made from without upon thcT

SQiil of the hero. Let him describe this with poetic fulness, from a soul which sees exactly^ shktply, compreljjgnsively, each single moment of the process, and finds special joy in portraying it in 322 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

beautiful_§iQi?lfi-4faks. Let him thus labor, and he will set Jiis actors the greatest tasks, and will worthily and completely make use of their noblest powers.

Again it must be said, no technique teaches how one must begin, in order to write in this way. CHAPTER V. VERSE AND COLOR.

The century in which the romance has become the prevailing species of poetry, will no longer consider verse an indispensable element of poetics. There are many dramas of a high order, favorite pieces upon our stage, composed in prose. At least in dramatic subjects from modern times, it is claimed, prose is the most appropriate expression of such thoughts and sentiments as can be placed on the stage, from a well-known real life. But the serious drama hardly concludes to abandon the advantages which verse affords, in order to win those of prose.

It is true, prose flows along more rapidly, more easily, indeed, in many respects more dramatically.

It is easier in it, to discriminate the different char-

acters ; it offers, from the construction of the sentence to the qualities of voice and tones, the greatest wealth of colors and shades ; everything is

less constrained ; it adapts itself quickly to every frame of mind; it can give to light prattle or to humorous delight a spirit which is very difficult to verse ; it admits of greater disquiet, stronger contrasts, more violent movement. But these advan-

323 324 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

tages are fully counterbalanced by the exalted mood of the hearer which verse produces and maintains. While prose easily incurs the risk of reducing the work of art to copies of ordinary reality, speech in verse elevates the nature of the characters into the noble. Every moment the perception and feeling of the hearer are kept alive

to the fact that he is in the presence of a work of art which bears him away from reality, and sets him in another world, the relations of which the human mind has ordered with perfect freedom. Moreover, the limitation which is placed on logical discussion, and sometimes on the brevity and incisiveness of expression, is no very perceptible loss. To poetical representation, the sharpness and fineness of proof- processes are not so important as the operation on the mind, as the brilliance of imaginative expression, of simile and antithesis, which verse favors. > In the rhythmic ring of the verse, feeling and vision raised above reality, float as if transfigured, in the hearer's soul ; and it must be said that these advantages can be very serviceable, specially to subjects from

modern times ; for in these, the exaltation above the common frame of mind of every-day life, is most necessary. How this can be done, not only The Prince of Hamburg shows, but the treatment which Goethe gave the undramatic material of The Natural

Daughter, though the verse of this drama is not written conveniently for the actor. The iambic pentameter has been our established verse since Goethe and Schiller. A preponderating VERSE AND COLOR. 325 trochaic accent of German words makes this verse peculiarly convenient. Of course, it is rather brief in relation to the little logical units of the sentence, the coupling of which in pairs makes up the essence of the verse-line. In its ten or eleven syllables, we cannot compress the fulness of meaning which it

has, for example, in the terse English speech ; and the poet thus inclined toward a rich, sonorous expression, falls easily into the temptation of extending part of a sentence into a line and a half or two lines, which it would be better to extend in an uninterrupted, and thus finer flow of words. But the pentameter has the advantage of the greatest possible fluency and flexibility ; it can. adapt itself more than any other kind of verse to changing moods, and follow every variation of the soul in time and movement. The remaining kinds of verse which have been used in the drama, suffer the disadvantage of having too marked a peculiarity of sound, and more than a little limit characterization by speech, which is necessary to the drama. The German trochaic tetrameter, which among many other measures for instance, Immermann used effectively in the catastrophe of his Alexis, flows like all trochaic verse, too uniformly with the natural accent of our language. The sharp time- beats which its feet make in the speech, and the long elevated course, give to it in the German language, a restlessness, a surging, a dark tone-color which would be appropriate only for high tragic 326 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. moods. The iambic hexameter, the caesura of which stands in the middle of the third foot, the tragic measure of the Greeks, has, so far, been used but little in Germany. From its translations from the Greek, it acquired the reputation of stiffness and

rigidity which do not essentially belong to it ; it has a vigorous movement and is capable of many variations. Its sonorousness is majestic, and full for rich expression which moves forward in long undu- lations, and is splendidly adapted to its use. It has only this disadvantage, that its chief division, which even in the drama must be made after the fifth syllable, gives to the parts of the verse very uneven length. Against five syllables stand seven, or eight if there is a feminine ending. A second caesura intrudes so easily into the second half verse, that the line is divided into three parts. This after- tone of the longer half makes a masculine ending of the verse desirable ; and the foretone of the masculine ending contributes to give weight, sometimes, hardness. The Alexandrine, an iambic hexameter, the caesura of which lies after the third arsis, and divides the line into two equal parts, cuts the discourse too markedly in the German drama. In

French, its effect is entirely different, because in this language the verse accent is much more covered and broken up in a greater number of ways, not only through the capricious and movable word accent, but through the free rhythmic swing of spoken discourse through a mingling and prolongation of words, which we cannot imitate; and VERSE AND COLOR. 327 this rests on a greater prominence of the element of sound, sonorousness, with which the creative power of the speaker knows how to play in an original manner. Finally, there is another iambic verse in the German, specially adapted to a vigorous movement, yet little used,—the hexameter of The Nibe- bingen, in the new language an iambic hexameter, the fourth foot of which may be not only an iambus, but an anapest, and always has the caesura of the "verse after the first thesis. What is characteristic and specially adapted to the German language, is the position of the c^sura so far along in the verse, which, deviating from all ancient measures, as a rule, shows a greater number of syllables in the first half. If the verses of this measure are not joined in strophes, but are used with slight variations in construction as continuous long verses, with a line frequently passing over into the next as a single sentence, then this measure is excellent and effective for the expression even of impassioned progress. It is possible that its nature, which, perhaps, corresponds best to the rhythmic relations of the German language, avails for animated narrative, and v/ins some significance for one species of comedy. To the elevated drama, rhyme, which in this measure, two long verses cannot dispense with as a connecting element, will always seem too harmonious and sportive, however well it may be modified through a rapid transition of voice, from one line to another. For the modern drama, further, likeness of tone- 328 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. color and uniformity of measure is indispensable. Our speech, and the receptivity of the hearer are, so far as the relations of sound are concerned, little developed. The differences in the sounds of the verses are conceived more as disturbing interruptions than as stimulating aids. But further, interest in the intellectual import of the discourse and in the dramatic movement of the characters, has come to the front to such an extent, that even for this reason, every verse unit which, in its contrast with what has preceded, calls attention to itself, will be counted a distraction.

This is also the ground that should easily exclude prose passages from between poetic passages in our drama ; for by means of them, the contrast in color becomes still stronger. Inserted prose always gives to scenes something of the barren

imitation of reality ; and this disadvantage is increased, because prose serves the poet as a means of expressing moods for which the dignified sonorousness of verse appears too excellent. The iambic pentameter has a fluency for the German poet, whose soul has accustomed itself in its soarings, to think and feel most easily during the process of composition. But its being made the vehicle of dramatic expression is still difficult for the German poet, and the poets are not numerous who have perfectly succeeded in it. And so distinctly this verse expresses the poet's quality, which is here called dramatic, that the reader of a new piece is able to perceive from a few verses VERSE AND COLOR. 329 of animated dialogue, whether this dramatic power of the poet is developed or not. Of course, it is always much easier for the Germans to feel the possibly dramatic than to express this inner life in a becoming manner in verse.

Before iambic verse is available for the stage, the poet must be in a position to make it correct, euphonious, and without too great effort; chief caesura and secondary caesura, arsis, thesis, masculine endings, feminine endings, must come out according to well-known laws, regularly and in pleasing variations.

If the poet has gained the technique of versification and succeeded in writing musical verse with pleasing flow and pithy substance, his verse is cer-

tainly not right undramatic ; and the more difficult labor begins. Now the poet must acquire another art of rhythmic feeling, which shall occasion, in place of regularity, to place apparent irregularities, to disturb the uniform flow in manifold ways, which means, to imbue with strong dramatic life.

Previously it was said, that in French, the Alex- andrine was animated and varied by the introduction of irregular modulations and cadences. The dramatic speech of the Germans does not allow the actors, like the French, unlimited play with words, through a rapidly changing rate of utterance, sharp accent, through a prolongation or tossing of the sounds, which proceed almost independently of their meaning, when representing single words. On the other hand, there is given to the German in an 330 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. unusual degree, the capability of expressing the movements of his mind, in the structure of his verse, through the connecting and separating of sentences, through bringing into relief, or transposing single words. The rhythmic movement of the excited soul comes more into relief among the Germans, in the logical connection and division of sentences, than among the Latin races in the sonorous swing of their recitation.

In the iambus of the drama, this life enters by interrupting the symmetrical structure of the verse,

checking it, turning it this way and that into the infinite shadings which are produced by the movements of the characters. The verse must accommo-

date itself obediently to every mood of the soul ; it must seek to correspond to each, not only through

its rhythm but through the logical connection of

sentences which it combines. For quiet feeling and fine mental action, which move forward in repose and dignity or with vivid animation, he must use his purest form, his most beautiful euphony, and even flow of eloquence. In Goethe, the dramatic iambus glides thus in quiet beauty. If feeling rises

higher, if the more excited mood flows out in more adorned, long-breathed lines, then the verse must rush in long waves, now dying out in preponderating feminine endings, now terminating more

frequently in powerful masculine endings. This is, as a rule, Schiller's verse. The excitement becomes

stronger ; single waves of speech break over one

verse, and fill a part of the next; then short ;

VERSE AND COLOR. 331

impulses of passion throng and break up the form of single verses ; but above all this eddying, the rhythmic current of a longer passage is quietly and steadily moving. So in Lessing. But the expression of excitement becomes stormier and wilder; the rhythmic course of the verse seems wholly dis-

ordered ; now and again a sentence from the end of one verse rings over into the beginning of the next

here and there a part of a verse is torn from its connections, and attached to what has preceded or

what follows ; speech and counter-speech break

the grammatical connections ; .the first word of a sentence, and the last, — two important places, — are separated from others and become independent

members of a sentence ; the verse remains imper-

fect ; instead of the quiet restful alternations of

strong and weak endings, there is a long series of

verses with the masculine ending; the caesura is

hardly to be recognized ; even in those unaccented syllables or groups, over which, in the regular course, the rhythm would flow swiftly, massive, heavy words throng together, and the parts of the verse tumble against each other as in chaos. This

is the dramatic verse, as it produces the most powerful effects in the best passages of Kleist,

in spite of all the poet's mannerisms ; thus it whirls and eddies away more magnificently, more finished, in the passionate scenes of Shakespeare. As soon as the poet has learned to use his verse

in such a manner, he has imbued it with a dramatic

life. But he must always keep in mind one dramatic 332 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

rule : Dramatic verse is not to be read or recited quietly, but to be pronounced in character. For this purpose, it is necessary that the logical connection of sentences be made perfectly clear, through conjunctions and prepositions ; and further, that the expression of sentiment correspond to the character of the speaker, not break off in unintelligible brevity, nor be prolonged to prolixity ; finally, that uneuphonious combinations of sounds and indistinct words are to be carefully avoided. Spoken speech yields its thought, sometimes with more ease, sometimes with more difficulty. A dissonance which the reader hardly notices, when pronounced, distracts and offends in a marked degree. Every obscurity in the connection of sentences makes the actor and the hearer uncertain, and leads to false conceptions. But even for accurate expression in fine and spirited explication, the reader is more penetrating and receptive than the easily distracted and more busily occupied spectator. On the other hand, the actor may make many things clearer. The reader in a comparatively more quiet mood, follows the short sentences of a broken speech, the inner relations of which are not made plain by the usual particles of

logical sentence sequences ; but he follows with an effort which easily becomes exhaustion. To the actor, on the contrary, such passages are the most welcome as the foundation of his creative work. By means of an accent, a glance, a gesture, he knows how to render quickly intelligible to the hearer, the last connection, the omitted ideas neces- VERSE AND COLOR. 333

sary to completeness ; and the soul which he puts into the words, the passion which streams forth

from him, become a guide which fills out and com- pletes for the hearer the import of the suppressed and fragmentary speech, and produces perhaps a powerful unity. It happens that in reading, long passages of verse give the impression of the artifi-

cial, of something vainly sought for ; but this on the stage changes into a picture of intense passion.

Now, it is possible that the actor has done his best with it ; for his art is specially powerful where the poet has left a blank in the thought. But just so often the poetic art has the best right; and the fault is in the reader, because his power of following and thinking along with the poet, is not so active as it should be. It is easy to recognize this peculiarity of style in Lessing. The frequent interruptions in the discourse, the short sentences, the questions and chance remarks, the animated dialectic processes which his persons pass through, appear in

reading as artificial unrest. But, with a few exceptions, they are so accurate, so profoundly conceived,

that this poet, just on this account, is the favorite

with actors. Still more striking is the same peculiarity in Kleist, but not always sound, and not always true. In the restlessness, feverishness, excitement of his language, the inner life of his characters, which struggles violently, sometimes

helplessly for expression, finds its corresponding reflection.

But a useless interruption of the discourse is not 334 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

infrequent,—unnecessarily invented animation, pur- poseless questions, a misunderstanding that requires no explanation. For the most part, he has a prac-

tical purpose in this ; he wishes to make very prominent individual ideas which appear of importance to him. But that seems to him important sometimes, which can really claim no

significance; and the frequent recurrence of little

leaps aside from the direct line of the action, disturb not only the reader but the hearer.

The effect of verse can be increased, in the Ger- man drama, by parallelisms, as well of single verses as of groups, especially in dialogue scenes; where proposition and denial come into sharp oppo-

sition, such a rotation of verses is an excellent means of indicating the contrast. The expansion which the rhythmic sweep of the Greek drama had, the Germans cannot imitate. Owing to the character of our speech, we are in a position to set over against one another in our dramatic composition, every four verses as a unit, so that the hearer will distinctly perceive coinci- dence and contrast of accent. In a recitation, which makes the logical side less prominent, and brings out the euphony which allows the voice stronger variations, one may set a longer series of verses effectively over against another. If the Greeks, by means of their art in recitation, could combine ten trimeters into a unit, and in the reply to this, could repeat the same accent and cadence, there is nothing incomprehensible to us in it. ;

VERSE AND COLOR. 335

Possibly, in the older times of Greek tragedy, there were a number of recitation melodies, or refrains, which were specially invented for each piece, or were already known to the hearers, and which without elevating the speaking tones of the recitation to a song, bound a longer group of verses into a unit.

This method of delivery is not to be used by us. Even in using the customary rotation verses, which beat, one against one, two against two, three against

three, a limit is set. For our kind of dramatic composition rebels against any artifice which restrains the movements of characters and their sentiments. The pleasure from the rhetoric of such

counter-speeches is less than the danger that the truth of representation may be lessened by artistic limitation. The poet will, therefore, do well to

modify this little effect, and take from it the severity

and appearance of artificiality ; this may be done by interspersing parallel propositions in verse, with irregularly placed verses. In the soul of the poet, at the same time with the foundation of the characters and the beginnings of the action, the color begins to flash. This peculiar adjunct of every subject matter is more developed among us moderns than in earlier times for historical culture has greatly enhanced our sense

for, and interest in what deviates from our own life. Character and action are conceived by the poet in the peculiar circumstances which the time, the place, the relations of the civilization in the time of the real hero, his manner of speech and of dealing, 336 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. his costume, and the forms of intercourse, — have in contrast with our own time and life. Whatever of the original clings to the material of a play carries the poet back in his artistic work, to the speech of his hero, to his surroundings, even down to his costume, the scenery and stage properties. These peculiarities the poet idealizes. He perceives them as determined by the idea of the piece. A good color is an important matter. It works at the beginning of the piece, at once stimulating and enchanting to the hearer ; it remains to the end a charming ingredient, which may sometimes serve to cover weaknesses in the action. These embellishing colors do not develop in

every poet with equal vividness ; they do not come to light with the same energy in every subject. But they never entirely fail where characters and human circumstances are depicted. They are indispensable to the epic and the romance, as they are to the drama. Color is of the most importance in historical themes ; it helps here to characterize the heroes. The dramatic character itself, must, in its feeling and its volition, have an import which brings it much nearer a cultured man of the present, than its original in reality corresponds to our conception of it. But it is the color which gracefully covers for the hearer the inner contradiction between the man in history and the hero in the drama ; the hero and his action it clothes with the beautiful appearance of a strange being, alluring to the imagination. The newer stage rightly takes pains, therefore, VERSE AND COLOR. 337 to express in the costume which it gives to the actors, the time in which the piece is laid, the social position, and many peculiarities of the characters presented. We are now separated by about a century from the time when Caesar came upon the German stage with dagger and wig, and Semiramis adorned her riding coat with much strange tinsel, and her hair with many jewels and striking trim- mings, in order to give herself a foreign appearance. Now, on many prominent stages, imitation of historical costume has gone very far ; but in the majority of cases, it remains far behind the demands which the audience, in its average historical knowledge, is justified in demanding with respect to scenic equipment. It is clear that it is not the duty of the stage to imitate antiquarian peculiarities ; but it is just as clear that it must avoid shocking a multitude of its patrons by forcing its heroes into a costume which, perhaps, nowhere and never, certainly not in this century, was possible. If the poet must keep aloof the antiquarian enthusiasm of the over-zealous from the clothing of his heroes, because the unusual, the unaccustomed in accessory does not advance, but rather disorders his piece, he will oftener have occasion, in for instance, a Hohen- staufen drama, to forbid a Spanish mantle, and to refuse to put upon a Saxon emperor a glittering lead armor, which changes his Ottos and Henrys into gold-beetles, and proves by their intolerable brilliancy that they were never struck by a blow from a sword. 338 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

The same holds true with the scenery and stage properties. A rococo table in a scene from the fifteenth century, or a Greek pillared hall where King Romulus walks, have already been long painful to the spectator. In order to make such remiss- nesses diflficult for individual directors and actors, the poet will do well, in pieces from ancient or remote times, to prescribe exactly upon a page devoted to that purpose, not only the scenic apparatus but the costumes.

But the most important means for his use in giving color to his piece, is the language. It is true, the iambus has a certain tone color and modifies the characteristic expression more than prose. But it admits of a great wealth of light and shade ; it allows even to words a slight tint in dialect. In subjects from remote times, a language must be invented, possessing a color corresponding to the period. This is a beautiful, delightful labor, which the creating poet must undertake right joyfully. This work will be most advanced by a careful reading of the written monuments received from the hero's time. This strange speech works sugges- tively on the mind of the poet, by its peculiar accents, its syntactical structure, its popular forms of expression. And with pen in hand, the poet arranges what appears useful to him for powerful expression,—striking imagery, telling comparison, proverbial dialect. Among every foreign people whose literature is accessible, such work is benefi- cial, and most advantageous with respect to any ;

VERSE AND COLOR. 339

nation's own earlier times. Our language had in

former periods, as the Sclavonic has still, a far greater proportion of figurative expressions, suggestive to the power of imagination. The sense of the

words had not been evaporated through a long sci-

entific labor ; everywhere there attached to them something of the first mental expression, from the popular mind where they originated. The number

of proverbs is large, as also is the number of terse forms and Biblical phrases, which the reflections of our time replace. Such ingredients the creating

artist may hold firmly in mind ; upon their melody his talent amplifies almost involuntarily, the ground tone and moods of the speech of the drama. With such an inspection of the written works of

old times, there remain connected with the poet, still others, — little traits of character, anecdotes, many striking things which may complete and illuminate his pictures. What he has thus found, he must not use pedan- tically nor insert in his speeches like arabesques each item may signify something to him ; but the suggestion which he receives from it, is of highest value. This mood which he has given his soul does not

forsake him ; even while he is conducting his hero through the scenes, it will suggest to him, not only the right kind of language, but the cooperation of persons, the way they behave toward each other, forms of intercourse, customs and usages of the time. 340 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

All this is true of the characters and their movements* in the scenes. For at every point in the drama, in every sentiment, in every act, that which in the material of the play struck us as characteristic, clings to what is humanly exalted in the ideal figures as embellishing additions. It is seldom necessary to warn the poet that he is not to do too much with these colors toward scenic effects ; for his highest task is, of course, to have his heroes speak our language of passion, and exhibit what is characteristic in them, in such vital expressions as are intelligible to every period, because, in every time they are possible and conceivable.

Thus the color of the piece is visible in the endowment of language, in the characters, in the details of the action. What the poet communicates to his play by color, is as little an imitation of reality, as his heroes are,—it is free creation. But this accessory helps so much the more to conjure up a picture in the imagination of the hearer, which has the beautiful appearance of historic truth, the more earnestly the poet has taken it upon himself to master the real circumstances of that old time, if he does not lack the power of reproducing what he perceived to be attractive. CHAPTER VI.

THE POET AND HIS WORK.

Great is the wealth of beauty in the poetry of past peoples and times, specially in the century of our great poets who form the judgment and excite the imagination of the poet of the present. This immeasurable wealth of the products of art is perhaps the greatest blessing for a future in which the popular energy works most powerfully, taking up what has affinity for it and casting off what resists it. But during a time of weak rest of the national spirit, this inheritance was a disadvantage for the creative activity of the poets, because it favored a lack of distinctive style. Only a few years ago, in

Germany, it was almost an accident whether an Athenian or a Roman, Calderon or Shakespeare, whether Goethe or Schiller, Scribe or Dumas, attracted the soul of the young poet into the magic circle of their style and their forms. The poet of the present begins, furthermore, as a beneficiary who richly receives, and is thereby incited to his own creative activity. He has, usually, no life occupation which binds him to a particular, definite field of poetry. It is again almost by chance, what species of poetical composition

341 342 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. attracts him. He may let his sentiments ring out in lyrics ; he may write a romance ; at last the theater entices him,—the brilliance of the author's evening, the applause of the audience, the power of the received tragic impressions. There are few

German poets who have not first commended themselves to the public, in a volume of lyrics, then tried their luck on the stage, and finally contented themselves with the more quiet success of a romance. Without any doubt, their poetic talent showed greatest capability in one of these directions. But as external relations laid no restrictions on them, and now one, now another field attracted more strongly, the circle in which their power moved with greatest freedom, did not come into fullest completion. The great secret of a rich creative activity is limitation to a single branch of the beautiful art. This the Hellenes knew very well. Whoever wrote tragedies, let comedy alone. Whoever used hexameter, avoided the iambus. But the poet, also, to whom the creation of dramatic figures is a necessity, lives, if he does not stride upon the boards as an actor or director, apart from the theater. He may write or not. External pressure, a mighty lever to move talent, is almost entirely wanting. The theater has become the daily pleasure of the peaceful citizen, and collects not the worst, but not the most pretentious social element. In this large expansion, it has lost some of the dignity and loftiness which the poet might wish for the drama of serious style. There are THE POET AND HIS WORK. 343 brought on the stage, buffoonery, opera, comedy, forms and theories of life of different centuries.

All is sought which can please, the newest, the most singular ; and, again, what affords the great multitude most pleasure, thriists all else aside. The resources of material for the poet have become almost boundless, —the Greek and the Roman worlds, the Middle Ages. Sacred writings and poetry of the Jews and Christians, even the people of the Orient, history, legends of the present, open their treasures to the searcher. But this offers the disadvantage, that with such infinite material, a choice becomes difficult, and is almost an accident, and that none of these sources is in a condition to attract the German exclusively, or preferably.

Finally, for the German, as it appears, the time has not yet come when the dramatic life of the people, itself, flows out richly and unimpeded. Gladly would we see in the appearances of the newest present the beginnings of a new development of national character, beginnings which do not yet contribute to art. That it is still so difficult for the dramatic poet to raise himself from the epic and lyric conception of character and of situations, is no accident. But the poet must labor for the stage. Only in connection with the actor's art does he produce the best results which are possible to his poetry. The reading drama is fundam(!ntally only a makeshift of a time in which the full power of dramatic creation has not yet appeared among a people, or has 344 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. disappeared again. The species is an old one. Already among the Greeks pieces were written for recitation, and still more of the Latin recitation pieces have been transmitted to us. Among the Germans, the reading drama, from the early comedies of nun Hroswith, through the stylistic attempts of the first humanists, even to the greatest poem of our language, has a long history. Infinitely varied is the poetical worth of these works. But the employment of poetic form for dramatic effects, which renounce the claim of being the highest of their species, is considered, on the whole, a limitation, against which art itself and the interested reader protests. In the pages of this book, the attempt has been made to show that the technical work of the dramatic composer is not entirely easy and free from pains. This kind of poetry demands more from the poet than any other. It demands a peculiar, but rarely found capability for representing the mental processes of men of significant and unusual power of action ; a nature well tempered with passion and clearness of vision; a developed and certain poetic endowment, and a knowledge of men, as well as what in real life, is called character; an accurate knowledge of the stage and its needs must be added. And yet it is striking,, that of the many who make incursions into this field of creative work, the most are on^y dilettanti friends of the

beautiful ; but just these choose the most exacting labor, and such a one as promises them the very THE POET AND HIS WORK. 345 least success. It is indeed serious work to write a romance which merits the name of work of art ; but every educated person with constructive skill and knowledge of men, who has not attempted anything as a poet, may offer something readable, wherein single significant impressions of real life, what he has seen, what he has felt, are spiritedly interwoven. Why does the most capricious muse of all muses, so unapproachable, so ill-mannered toward everybody who does not wholly belong to her, — why does she attract cultured men, very capable men ? What enemy of their life guides just such warm-hearted friends, who busy themselves with poetry during their hours of leisure from active duties, into a poetical field, in which the closest combination of an always rare constructive energy, with an unusual, firm, secure mastery of the forms of art, is the assumed condition of lasting success ? Does a secret longing of man for what is most lacking in him, possibly, lead him astray ? And does the dilettanti, just for this reason, seek to develop the drama in himself, because it is denied him, with all his poetic visions, to animate creatively his restless fluttering feelings in the body of any other form of art ? Undeniably, the attempts of such persons to labor for the stage, are vain and hopeless. But for the poet who has been equipped for all his life with dramatic power, we wish, before all other possessions, a firm and patient heart. He must, however, bring to his employment still another means of advancement ; he must feel quickly and joyfully 346 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. what is charming in a subject, and yet have the deliberation to carry it within his breast till it is natural. Before he ascends the stage as creative genius, he must for a long time make himself intimate with the chief laws of creation ; for he must understand how to prove whether a subject is useful, in the essentials. Even in this, judgment must from the first moment watch over his warm heart,

where the charm of composition arises ; a play which has failed, means to him, on the average, a year of his life lost. The imagination of different poets does not seize upon material with equal rapidity ; the beginner's seeking soul hovers lightly about any summit which offers itself, and the nest is built beneath the first budding branch. He who is warned by experience, becomes critical and tests too long. Often it is not an accident that suggests a subject to the soul, but the mood and impressions of the soul's own life, which attract the fancy in a definite direction.

For the soul works secretly upon a piece before it finds hero and chief scenes ; and what it demands from the material is that this may offer the possibility of certain scenic effects. The difficulties which the various subjects and materials offer, have been made sufficiently prominent. But he who finds it difficult to decide, may consider that it depends on the power of his talents whether, in most events, they are changed into a useful action. A positive poetic power needs only a few rnoments out of legend, history, narrative, THE POET AND HIS WORK. 347 onjy_ga^ strong and momentous CQntrast,_out ot which to form an action. If the dramatic poet of old times found these traits in the legend shortly before the destruction of the hero of the epic, it may yet be asked whether, in historical dramas, it is just as necessary to make the chief heroes of this sort the central figures in an action, that this may have its movements about them, their adventures, and their overthrow. How difficult and perilous it is to make use artistically of an historical life, has already been discussed. Let it not be objected that the greater historical interest which the heroes awaken, and the patriotic enthusiasm which the poet and the spectator alike bring to them, make them specially adapted to the drama. The old German history offers comparatively few heroic figures whose remembrance is dear through a great interest, in the present time. What to our people are the emperors of the Saxon, Prankish,

Staufen, or Hapsburg houses ? The purposes for which they conquered and died are perhaps con-

demned by the convictions of the present time ; the struggles of their life have remained with no occur-

rences easily understood by us ; for the popular mind, they are dead and buried. But further, the conscientious poet, before the not numerous historical heroes who still live in the memory of the people, will recognize new restrictions which narrow the freshness of his creative power. Just this patriotic sympathy which he brings with him, and expects from the hearer, lessens the superior free- 348 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. dom with which, as poet, he must hover over every character, and misleads him into special kinds of presentation or. a sort of portrait sketching. If once, to one German poet, the dramatic figure of the great Elector has been successful, Luther, Maria Theresa,

"Old Fritz," have only so much the more frequently failed.

But it is not at all necessary to make historical kings and generals, the heroes of an historical drama, which can be constructed advantageously on only a little period of their historical life. Much more agreeably and profitably may be exhibited the reaction which their lives have had upon the lives of others. How well has Schiller done this in

Don Carlos, in Mary Stuart I The Phillip of the former play is a brilliant example, showing how an historical character is to be used as a partner in a play.

With the life of well-known historical heroes a multitude of figures is connected, of whom single

characteristic traits have been reported ; and these successfully incite free invention. These accessory figures of history, whose life and its events the poet has at his free disposal, are specially convenient. One treasonous act and its punishment, one passionate deed of hatred and its consequences, one scene from a great family quarrel, one defiant struggle or sly play against a superior power, give him an abundant material. And such traits and such incidents are found on every page of our history, as in the history of all civilized nations. THE POET AND HIS WORK. 349

Whoever is conscious of his own power chooses his pictures confidently, rather from the materials not yet arranged for art, but found in the real life of the past, and of modern times, than from such stock as is offered him from the other species of poetry. For the serious drama, material taken from romances and modern novels is not of much account. If Shakespeare used material from novels, his sources were, in our sense of the word, only short anecdotes, in which, of course, an artistic consistency and a powerful conclusion are already present. In the elaborated epic narrative of the present, the fancy of the poet shows its power frequently, just in effects which are intrinsically hostile to the dramatist; and the embellished and agreeable elaboration of the men and the situations in the romance, may rather dull than sharpen the imagination of the dramatist. He will hardly do wrong to the property of another if he draws his material from this circle of invention. For if he is an artist, very little will pass from the creation of another over into his drama.

The tragic poet is able, of course, to invent his action without using any material already at hand. But indeed, this happens less often, and with more difficulty than one would suppose. Among the great dramas of our stage, just as it once was in ancient times, there are few which are not constructed from already used material. For it is a characteristic of the power of imagination, that it perceives more vividly and exactly the movements 350 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

in the life of men, if it can attach itself to a partic-

ular figure and its adventures. The image which

imagination discovers for itself is not so easily made firm and powerful, that there is inclination to put upon it steady and assiduous labor. And yet one conviction the poet may keep in

his quiet soul, that no material is entirely good, little wholly bad. From this side also, there is no perfect work of art. Every subject has its inherent difficulties and disadvantages which the art of the poet is so far able to overcome, that the whole gives the impression of beauty and greatness. These weaknesses are to be recognized, but only by the practiced eye ; and every work of art gives the critic, from this point of view, occasion for the exercise of his functions. He who judges must be on the lookout, that in the face of this deficiency, he understands whether the poet has done his duty, whether he has used all the means of his art, to master or to conceal.

In the joyful consciousness that he is beginning a gallant work, the poet must sternly take his position over against what has become dear to him, and test it, so soon as his soul begins to move about the accumulated material to beautify it. He will have to make the idea distinct, and eliminate everything accidental that clings to it from reality.

To the first charm that becomes ardent in his oul, belong characteristic utterances of the hero in single moments of his inner agitation or powerful activity. In order to increase the number of the ;

THE POET AND HIS WORK. f^ j3ictures of such moments, and in order to inten-'^^^'^^ sify the characters, he will earnestly seek to understand the real life and surroundings of his hero. He will, therefore, contemplating a historical drama, make good studies, and this labor will have rich reward ; for from it appear to him a great number of visions and pictures which may be readily joined in imagination to the growing work. The grateful soul of the German has, for just such characterizing details, a very sensitive feeling ; and the poet will therefore have need to be on his guard that historic costume, the historic marvellous and infrequent do not assume too much importance. If he has in this way extended, as much as possible, the world of his artistic vision, then let him throw aside his books, and wrestle for the freedom which is necessary to him, in order to have free play upon the accumulated material. But let him hold fast in his mind, as a restraint upon his directing power, four rules : a short course to the action, few persons, few changes, and even in the first plan, strong relief to the important parts of the action. He may write out his plans or not; on the whole, this is not of much account. Elaborate written explanations have this advantage, that they make single purposes distinct through reflection but they have the disadvantage, that they easily clog the imagination, and render more difficult the necessary transformation and elimination. One sheet is enough to contain a perfect outline. Before the poet begins his elaboration, the char- ;

352 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. acters of his heroes and their positions relative to one another, must be clearly fixed in mind, in all

essentials ; and so the results of each single scene. Then during the labor, the scenes take shape easily, as does their dramatic course. Of course, this serious labor before beginning to write does not exclude minor changes in the char-

acters ; for the creative skill of the poet does not stand still. He intends to direct his characters, and they impel him. It is a joyful process which he notices in himself as the conceived characters, through his creative power and under the logical force of events, become living beings. A new invention attaches to one already expressed — and suddenly there flames up a beautiful and great effect. And while the goal and resting-place by the way are fixed in his clear gaze, the surging feeling labors over the effects, exciting and exalt-

ing the poet himself. It is a strong inner excitement, cheering and strengthening the favorably

endowed poet ; for above the most violent agitation, through the fancy which in the most passionate parts of his action excites his nerves almost to convulsion and reddens his cheeks, the spirit hovers in perfect clearness, ruling, choosing freely, and ordering and arranging systematically

The labor of the same poet is different at different moments. Many of these appear to him brilliant their previously perceived effects move his spirit

animatedly ; what has been written down appears only as a weak copy of a glowing inner picture, THE POET AND HIS WORK. 353

whose magic color has vanished ; other moments

develop perhaps, slowly, not without effort ; the fancy is sluggish, the nerve-tension not strong enough ; and sometimes it seems as if the creative power rebels against the situation. Such scenes, however, are not always, the worst.

The force of creative energy, too, is quite varying. One is rapid in the labor of writing down what is composed ; to another, forms take shape slowly, and do not express themselves fluently on paper. The more rapid workers do not always have the advantage. Their danger is that they often fix the images too soon, before the work of fancy has reached the needed maturity. It is often possible for the poet to say to himself, that the inner uncon- scious labor is done, and to recognize the moment when the details of the effects have been rightly completed. The maturing of the pictures, however, is an important matter ; and it is a peculiarity of creative power, that, as we might say, it is in operation at hours in which the poet is not consciously at his work.

Not unimportant is the order of sequence in which the poet writes out his piece. For one, the well trained imagination works out scenes and acts

it seizes on, now in regular succession ; for another, this, now that part of a great effect. What has been written comes to exercise a controlling influ-

ence on what is to be written. As soon as conception and vision and feeling are recorded in words, they stand face to face with the poet as an outsider ;

354 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA

giving direction ; they suggest the new, and their color and their effects change what may come later. Whoever works in the regular order will have the advantage that mood develops from mood, situation from situation, in regular course. He will not always avoid making the way over which he would guide his characters, deviate a little and gradually, under his hands. It appears that Schiller has so worked. Whoever, on the other hand, sets before himself what the sportive fancy has vividly illumi- nated, will probably supervise more securely the aggregate effect and movement of his masterpiece he will, however, now here, now there, during his labor, have to make changes in motives and in individual traits. This was, at least in single cases, the work of Goethe. When the piece has been completed beyond the catastrophe, and the heart is exalted with gladness on account of the finished work, then the reaction which prevails everywhere after a highly excited frame of mind, begins. The soul of the poet is still very warm, the aggregate of beauty which he has created, and enjoyed while creating, the inner image which he has of its effects, he embodies still uncon- fused in the written work. It appears to him, according to the mood of the hour, either a failure or a vast success ; on the whole, if in a normal state of mind, he will feel an inclination to trust to the power which his work attests. But his work is not yet finished, at least if he is a German. If the poet writes to have his work put oil the boards, he does THE POET AND HIS WORK. 355 not, as has been said, yet feel, every moment, the impressions which the forces of his piece produce on the stage. Dramatic power works unequally also in this direction ; and it is pleasant to notice the oscillations, in themselves. They may be perceived in the works of even great poets. One scene is distinguished by a vivid conception of the scenic action, the discourse is broken, the effects more exactly harmonized by transitions ; at another time, it flows more agreeably for the reader than for the actor. And however rightly the poet may have perceived the sum of scenic effects, in detail, the sense of the words and the effect which, from the writing-table, they produce on the receptive mind, have had more of his attention than their sound, and their mediation with the spectator through the actor. But not only does the actor's right prevail touching a piece, requiring here greater prominence

of one effect, there a modification ; but the audience is, to the poet, an ideal body demanding a definite treatment. As the power of imagination was greater in the hearer in the time of Shakespeare, the enjoyment of spoken words greater, but the comprehension of connections slower, so the audience of to-day has a soul with definite qualities. It has already taken up much, its comprehension of the connections is quick, its demands for powerful movement are great, its preference for definite kinds of situations is inordinately developed. The poet will therefore be compelled to adapt his work to the actor's art and the demands of the 356 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. public. This business, the stage term of which is

"adapting" {^aptireii), the poet is able only in rare cases to achieve alone. In the land of dramatic poetry,the cutting out of

passages is wrongly in bad repute ; it is rather (since for a time, the creative work of the German poet is accustomed to begin with a weak development of the sense of form) the greatest benefit which can be conferred upon his piece, an indispensable prerequisite to presentation on the stage, the one means of insuring success. Further, it is frequently a right which the actor's art must

enforce against the poet ; omissions are the invisible helpers which adjust the demands of the spectator and the claims of the'poet; whoever with quiet enjoyment perceives clearly, at his work- table, the poetical beauty of a piece, thinks, not willingly, how the effects will be changed in the light of the stage. Even worthy authors who have chosen the most serviceable calling of explaining to their contemporaries the beauties of the greatest poets, look down with contempt on a tradesman's custom of the stage, which unmercifully mangles the most beautiful poetry. Only from the brush of a careful manager do the beautiful forms in the masterpieces of Schiller and Shakespeare come forward in the right proportion for the stage. Of course, every theater does not have a technical director, who with delicacy and understanding arranges the pieces so as to adapt them to the stage. Very adverse is the rude hand THE POET AND HIS WORK. 357 that cuts into the dramatic beauty, because it may present an inconvenience or does not conform to the taste of an exacting audience. But the misuse of an indispensable means should not bring that means into ill-repute ; and if one would depreciate the complaints of the poets, over the misuse of their works, according to their justification, one would in most cases do them wrong.

Now in this adapting of a piece, much is merely

of personal opinion ; the justification of many single omissions is sometimes doubtful. The direction of a theater, which has, as a matter of course, the effect on a particular stage in mind, will have greater regard to the personality of its actors than will be welcome to the poet before the presentation. To an able actor who is specially esteemed by the audience, the director will sometimes allow to re-

main what is unnecessary ; when he expects some good result from it, he may take an accessory effect from a role whose setting must be imperfect, if he is convinced that the actor is unable to bring it out. The author of a work must not, therefore, leave the cutting down of his play entirely to strangers.

He can accomplish it himself if he has had long

experience with the stage ; but otherwise he will need the aid of other hands. He must reserve to himself the last judgment in the matter; and he will not usually allow the management to abridge his piece without his approval. But he will, with self- denial, listen to the opinions of men who have had 358 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. greater experience, and have an inclination to yield to them where his artistic conscience does not make concessions impossible for him. But since his judgment is hardly unembarrassed, he must, at the first intrusion of a benevolent criticism into his soul, wind about through uncertainty and inner struggles, to the great exercise of his judgment.

The first disturbance in the pleasant peace of a poetic mind, which is just rejoicing in a completed work, is perhaps painful for a weak soul ; but it is as wholesome as a draft of fresh air in the sultry summer. The poet is to respect and love his work so long as he bears it about as an ideal, and works upon it; the completed work must be dismissed. It must be as if strange to hirn, in order that he may gain freedom for new work.

And yet the poet must attempt the first adaptation, while his work is still on his desk. It is an unfriendly business, but it is necessary. Perhaps \^ile he has been writing, he has perceived that some parts are necessary. Many moods which have been dear to him, he has more broadly elaborated than a slight warning of his conscience now approves. Nay, it is possible that his work, after the completion of his labor, in the moment when he

considers it done, is still a quite chaotic mass of correct and artistic effects, and of episodical or in- juriously uneven finish. Now the time has come when he may repair what he slighted in his former labor. He must go

through scene by scene, testing ; in each he must THE POET AND HIS WORK. 359 investigate the course of individual roles, the posing, the proposed movements of the persons ; he must try to make the picture of the scene vivid at each moment on the stage ; he must hit upon the exact position of the entrances and exits through which his persons come upon the stage and leave ; he must consider, also, the scenery and the properties, whether they hinder or whether they aid as much as possible. Not less carefully let him examine the current of the scene itself. Perhaps in this process he will discover prolixities ; for to one writing, an accessory trait of character may easily seem too import-

ant ; or the role of a favorite has come to the front in a way to disturb the aggregate effect ; or the presentations of speeches and responses are too frequent. Let him inexorably expunge what does not conduce to the worth of the scenic structure, however beautiful it may be in itself. Let him go further and test the connection of the scenes of an act, the one aggregate effect. Let him exert his whole art to avoid the change of scenery within acts, and fully, when by such a change the act will be twice broken. At the first glance, the probable seems impossible to him, but it must be possible.

And if he considers the acts concluded, their combination of scenes satisfactory, then let him compare the climax of effects in the single acts, and see that the power of the second part corresponds also to the first. Let him raise the climax by an effort of his best poetic power, and let him 36o FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. have a sharp eye upon the act of the return. For if the hearers should not be satisfied with the catastrophe, the fault lies frequently in the previous act. The time within which the action must complete itself will be determined for the modern poet by the custom of his contemporaries. We read with astonishment of the capacity of the Athenians to endure for almost an entire day, the greatest and most thrilling tragic effects. Even Shakespeare's pieces are not much longer than our audience might be accustomed to, were they given unabridged, in a small auditorium where more rapid speaking is possible; they would not require, on the average, more than four hours. The German unwillingly tolerates now in a closed theater, a play which takes much longer than three hours. This is a circumstance in no way to be disregarded ; for in the time which extends beyond this, however exciting the action may be, there are disturbances by the withdrawal of single spectators ; and it is not possible to hinder the restlessness of the remaining ones. But such a limitation is for this reason a disadvantage, that in view of a great subject and great elaboration, three hours is a very short time; especially on our stage, where from the time of a five-act play, during the four intervals between acts, fully a half hour is lost. Of all the German poets, it was notoriously most difficult for Schiller to complete his play within the stage time ; and although his verses flow rapidly, his plays, unabridged, would 1 THE POET AND HIS WORK. 361 take more time on the whole than the audience would be willing to. give. A five act play, which after its arrangement for the stage contains an average of five hundred lines to the act, exceeds the allotted time. As a rule, not morejiiaii two,_thausand-Jiii£S_^QuJd be considered the regular length of a stage piece, a limit which is conditioned by the character of the piece, the average rate of utterance, compactness, or lighter flow of the verse ; also through this, whether the action of the piece itself demands many divisions, pauses, movements of masses, pan- tomimic activity ; lastly, through the stage upon

which it is played ; for the size and acoustics of the house and habits of the place exercise an essential influence. Of course, most of the stage pieces of our great poets are considerably longer ;^^but the poet would now vainly appeal to their example. For their works all hail from a time in which the present stage usage was not yet adopted, or was less com- pulsory. And finally, in our time, patrons take the liberty of old friends, to chose the time of their departure, with no respect to the convenience of others. He who would now be at home on the stage, must submit to a usage which cannot at once be changed. The poet will then estimate his piece

according to the number of verses ; and if this, as may be feared, extends beyond the stage time, he must once more examine it with reference to what may be omitted. 362 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

When he has ended this severe labor of self-criticism, improving his piece as much as possible, then he may begin to think of preparing it for the public eye. For this work, an experienced theater friend is indispensable. The poet will seek such a one in the director or manager of a great stage. To him he will send his work in manuscript. Now begins a new examination, discussion, abridgement, till the wording is satisfactory for the presentation on the stage. If the poet has accepted the changes necessary to make his piece conform to its purpose, it is usually put at an early date on the boards, in the theater in connection with which he has confidently ventured his fortune. If it is possible for him to witness this performance, it will be very advantageous to him, not so much, however, because he at once perceives the disadvantages and defects of his work (for to young poets, self-knowledge comes seldom so quickly), as because, to the enperienced director of a stage, many weaknesses and redundancies of a piece first become apparent on its being performed.

It is true that a poet's first connection with the stage is not free from discomfort. His anxiety about the reception of the piece creeps close about his brave heart. The abbreviated parts always cause

pain ; and the striding on the half-dark stage becomes painful on account of the secret uncertainty, and his consideration of the imperfect renderingof the actor. But this connection has also something that is

refreshing and instructive : the trials, the appre- THE POET AND HIS WORK. 363

hension of the real stage pictures, the acquaintance with the customs and arrangements of the theater. And with a tolerable success of the play, the remembrance of the occasion remains, perhaps, a worthy possession of the poet in his later life.

Here a warning. The young poet is to take part foi a few times in the rehearsal and in the presentation.

He is to make himself acquainted with the details of the arrangement, the control of the entire combination, the wishes of the actors. But he is not to make a hobby of his pieces. He is not to

persist in these too warmly ; he is not to seek the applause of new men too zealously. And, further, he is not to play the director, and is to mingle in the rehearsal only where it is positively urged. He

is no actor, and he may scarcely, in the rush of

rehearsal, correct what an actor is failing in. Let

him notice what strikes him ; and let him discuss this later with the actor. The place of the poet is in the test of reading. Let him so arrange his

work that if he has voice and practice, he himself

may first read it aloud, and in a second rehearsal hear the actors read their roles. The good influence which he may exercise, will be best assured in this way. The great independence of different provinces has hindered in Germany the success of a piece on the stage in a capital city, from being a criterion of

its success on the other stages of the country. A German play must have the good fortune of meeting success in eight or ten of the great theaters in 364 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA. different parts of Germany, before its course upon the rest may be assured. While the reputation of a piece which comes from the stronghold of Vienna determines, to a certain degree, its fate at the other theaters of the empire, the Berlin court theater has a still smaller circle in which it gives prestige. What pleases in Dresden displeases perhaps in Leipsic, and a success in Hanover insures no success in Brunswick. Meantime, the connection of the Ger- man theaters reaches so far, that the success of a piece on one or two respectable stages calls the attention of the others to it. Lack of attention to what is available everywhere is, in general, not the greatest reproach which at present can be cast upon the German stage.

If a piece stood the test of a first appearance, there were formerly two ways of making its use more extensive. The first was to print the piece

and send copies to different theaters ; the other was toxommit the manuscript to an agent to be pushed. Now, the Society of Dramatic Authors and Com- position at Leipsic, by its director, represents the rights and interests of its members among the differ-

ent theaters ; it takes charge of the business of getting a piece on the stage, supervises its appearance on the boards, attends to the collection of the compen- sation (honoraria) and percentages. Whoever hasi to do with theaters, as a young writer, cannot now' dispense with the support of this society ; and it is to his interest to become a member.

But besides this, it is desirable for a youngj THE POET AND HIS WORK. 365

author to come into close relations with the theaters themselves, their distinguished managers, leaders, and professors. In this way he becomes acquainted with theatrical life, its demands and its needs.

Therefore, with his first piece let him take a middle course. If his manuscript is printed (let him not use too small type and make the prompter weep over it), let him give it for the majority of

theaters to the director of the Society ; let him reserve to himself, however, the transmission to and intercourse with some theaters from which he can expect particular demands. Besides, it is desirable to send copies of his work to individual prominent actors at famous theaters. He needs the warm de-

votion and generous sympathy of the actors ; it will be friendly, too, for him to facilitate the study of their roles. A connection thus begun with the highly esteemed talent of the stage will not only be useful to the author ; it can win to him men of j)rominence, ardent admirers of the beautiful, perhaps helpful and faithful friends. To the German poet there is greater need of fresh suggestions, stimulating intercourse with cultivated actors, than

any thing else ; for, in this way he attains most easily what too generally is lacking, an accurate knowledge of what is effective on the stage. Even Lessing learned this by experience.

If the poet has done all this, on the reasonable success of his piece, he will soon, through a somewhat extensive correspondence, be initiated into the secrets of stage life. 366 FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA.

And finally, when the young dramatist has in this way sent the child of his dreams out into the world, he will have sufficient opportunity to develop within himself something besides knowledge of the stage. It will be his duty to endure brilliant successes without haughtiness and conceit, and to accept sorrowful defeats without losing courage. He will have plenty of occasion to test and fashion his self-consciousness ; and in the airy realm of the stage, in face of the actors, the authors of the day, and the spectators, to 'make something of himself worth more than being a technically educated poet — a steadfast man, who not only perceives the beautiful in his dreams, but who shall be honestly determined unceasingly to represent it in his own life. INDEX.

subordinate 44 Abasement of hero 71 time of 360 Accessories, essential 71 construction of 196 Accessory figures 11, 32, 44 Acts, five 192, 210 Achilles 62,179, 283 Actor and poet-. -300, 317, V Accidents 311, 314 3I9» 321 Acropolis 148 and verse 331 Act defined Ig2 Actors, number 145, 148 divisions of 210 personality --149, 257 of ascent igg special roles 330 of catastrophe 201 three 162 of climax Adapting igo to stage 356, 358 of introduction ^gisthos ig6 'j^)^ 174 of return 201 ^schylus-25, 42, 75, n, Acting^_Greek-----^.,^^X4Qi_i52 112, 115, 141, 143, 146, Action 9, 19, 22, 27,^36 148, 157, 162, 173 about one person 305 Agamemnon ^j beginning of 29 Furies 160 characters in. --266, 272, Libation Pourers 173 275, 276, 278 Persians 141 chief thing 89 Suppliants 42, 141 double 44 After-creation 246 importance of 61 Agamemnon --42, 62, 177, 283 influence of character-- 42 Aggregate effect 94 length of 360, 361 Ajax-S7, 107, 112,153, 154, magnitude of 61 156, 158, 161, 162, 176, 177 movement in (£ Ajax--42, 45, 153, 161, 162, probability of 49 164, 176 progress of 29 Alba __ 225 qualities of 27 Alcestis 112 rising 66 Alexandrine 326, 329 reflex. 74 Alphonso 197, 201 367 36S INDEX.

Andromache -- 112 Auerbach 241 Anne-- 256 Aufidius--76, 131, 136, 184, Antigone, loj^iy^* I53» I54, 187. 258 155,158, 170, 311 Augustus Caesar 216 plot of -- 170

Antigone, 42, 75. I37. 152, 153. 154, 155, 158, 164. Banquo 59, 186 170, 171, 175, 314 Baumgarten 123, 197 Antonio 197, 199, 200, 201 Beaumarchais 120, 122 Cleopatra^ Antony and Benvolio 126 186, 306 41, 71, 245, Berlin 364 Antony 71, 72, 95, 100, Bertha 200 132, 256, 306 Black Knight 60 Apollo-- 173 Blasius von Boiler 10 Aphrodite 116 Bohemia 50 Aristotle, 5, 6, 26, 36 ,86, 88, Bohemian cup 221, 237 98, 100, 103, 308 89, 93, Bride of Messina 228, 242 Poetics of 6, loi, 247 Brunhild 285 Appiani - 198 Brutus, 82, 95, 118, 121, 123, Arrangement of parts 210 124, 132, 135. 136, 186, Art and nature 299, 300 229, 254, 255, 256, 316 Artist as hero 68 Burleigh 212, 213 Ase-god 292 Burlesque play 146 Athene 161, 162 57, Burnam Wood 136 Athenian 341 Buttler -78, 204,207, play, length of 146 237. 316 poets 141 C stage 36,69,101, 112, 140 tragedy 141, 171 Caesar Julius 59, 77, 95,

Athenians-- -6, 7, 153, 158, 100, 121, 123, 135, 224, 160, 163, 164, 202, 360 254, 255 265, 337

Attic criticism 3, 158 Caesura 325,326, 327 market I44 Calderon 341

orations - 148 Camp 209 poet 91, 157 Canossa ---39. 293, stage, 112, 143, 147. 151. 294, 295 152, 154, 181 Capulets---32,34, 122, 123, tragedy 282 126, 182 Audience and poet 354 Casca 256 Auditor - - 50, 51 Cassandra - -- 77 —

INDEX. 369

Cassius--ii9, 121, 124, 186, last century 262 224, 254, 256 laws concerning 303, 314 Catastrophe 35, 114 material and-- 266 act of 201 minor changes in 332 defined 137 motive not marvelous- 307 difficulties in 138 must be good and evil 308 double-- 206 must show one side-- 303 in Antigone ------171 must guide action 310, 314 law of 139 must be true 274 Sophocles 169 on stage 262, 297 Cause and effect 311 personality ot 310 Chance 35 subordinate 256, 259 Character of poet 134, 366 unity of 304 Characterization weakness of 65 methods of 250, 251 with portraiture 273 German 250, 251 Charlemagne 50 Romances 250, 251 Charles V 267, 268 in different poets _ 252 Chief effect 71 Shakespeare's 258 hero conquered 106, 107 Characters 21, 246 reaction on 106, 306 action influenced by 42, triumphant 106 266, 272, 275, 276, 278 Christian 343 chief 249 Christianity 293,. 294 prominence of 23, 231 Chorus 140, 142 defining 247 Chrysomethis 48,173, 174 dramatic life of 22 Clara 139 female 262 Claudia *__- 199 humorous 310 Clavigo,.--^-},, 49, 107, 119, in .^schylus 162 120, 122, 130, 223 in Euripides 252 Clavigo 120, 130, 262, 314 in Goethe 262 Cleopatra 71, 72, 239 m Hamlet 190, 192, 193 Climax 105, 114, 130, 131 \n Iliad 290 actof 199 in Lessing 259 defined 128 in Nibelungen 290 scene 199 in Odyssey 290 Sophocles 161

in Shakespeare 253 Clytemnestra,---42, 62, 77, in Schiller 264 152, 166, 173,283 jn Sophocles 165 Closed stage 19c impelling force of 258 Colloquy scenes 145 — — —

370 INDEX.

Color

a creation _ 340 Daja 118 and language 339 Danger in hero's leading-- 109 and verse 323 Davison 213 in poet's soul 336 Deed concealed ']'] Comparisons 298 Deianeira loi, 153, Complication 121 166, 176 Concert speech — 243 Delivery, methods of 336 Conradin 97 Demetrius 238, 239, 263 ^Construction of drama 104 Desdemona 121 of scenes 210 Deveroux __- 316 in Sophocles 140 Devil 55, 57 Contest on Attic stage- 143, 147 Dialogue scenes-- 170, 221, Conti 120 223, 225

Contrast Dionysus -_--._ .-. ^ :-....jg^^ in character 163, 164 171 Dionysian festivals --- 141, 147 in scenes 81 Director's help 362, 365 necessary 44, 223 Director Scenes 212 Sophocles 161 Distributed voices 244 Cordelia 135, 257, 310, 314 Don Carlos- -loi, 223, 306, 348 Coriolanus 27, 131, 187, 258 Drama — Coriolanus 76, 131, 135, acts in--- 195 136, 187, 246, 258 Attic 18, 45, 112, 143, 147, Costume, changes of 214 306, 334, 343 Greek 147 beginning of 25 historical 337 construction of 104 Counterplay --45, 104, 122, double 206 128, 130, 185, 186 five parts of — 114 in introduction 120, 220 Germanic-- 181, 184, 193, 334 Counterplayers— 125, 162, in two halves 105 180, 200, 235, 253, 272 modern-- 195 Craftsman's rules 3 musicand 88 Creation and after-creation 249 reading-- 344 Creon45, 137.JLS2, 158, 165, three crises in _- 114 170, 171, 172,211, 314 Dramatic Crises three 114 action 9 Cromwell 96 art 19 Curtain, effects of 193, 215 characters 246 Custom, national 69 characterization 249 Cutting out------356, 357 composition 344 .

INDEX. 371

effects 21 Emilia Galotti 49, 109, sociable 52 120, 122, 130, 197, 198, expression 19 199, 201, 259, 307 forces or moments— 18, Emilia Galotti — ^^6, 120, 115, 211 130, 197, 198, 199, 207 recitation 330 Enobarbus 236 unity 43 Epic- - 18 verse 330 heroes 278-282 what is 19 material 278,279 Dramatis personcs 21 narrative 36 Dramatist and spectator. 52 tradition 279,284 Double action 44 Episodes --- 47, 134 danger in 46 in Goethe - 49 Double drama 206 in Lessing 48 Double tragedy 202 in Shakespeare 48 Dumas 341 in Schiller 49 Duncan yj. 119 j_n Sophocles 48 Eschylus, see ^schylus-- Euripides, 25, 26, 42, 43, 62, 89, 112, 115, 142, 143, Edgar 129 157, 158, 166, 173, 282, Edipus, see CEdipus 284, 296 Edmund 135, 136, 311 Alcestis 112 Effect and cause 311 Andromache 112 Effects, great only 134 Hecuba 26, 116

heightened 79, 153 Helena 112 in supreme moment yd Hippolytus 116, 157 of old drama 90 Iphigenia in Aulis- -62, 283 on Attic stage 151 Medea 157 opera-like 283 Eurydice -IZi- Eger— 204 Events behind scenes 73 Egmont --41, 139, 240, 308, on stage 74, 75 316, 324 Exciting force or moment Egmont 225 52, 114, 115, 121, 123, Egyptians 54 127, 172-5, 197 Electra .-48, "](>, 152, 172 convenient arrangement 125 Electra yd, yj, 164, 167, diverse forms 123 174, 176, 283 double 205,206 Elizabeth 55, in, 132, no elaboration 124

199, 202, 212, 306 ' Exposition 21 ——

372 INDEX.

77, 80, 84, no, 114, 120, 127, 128, 195, 199, 200, Fall of action 115 226, 246, 265, False unity 38 223, 247, 279, 284, 285, 289, 293, Falstaff 46 308, 360 Faust- S7>^^, 116, 122, 189, 241, 263 Germany- -96, 98, 245, 253, Faust---i22, 165, 227,241, 263 325, 341, 363 Ferdinand 100,111, 127 Ghost- 186 Field of poet now 342 Gloucester 45

Figures of Sophocles-—-- 1 66 Goethe-- 1, 2, 8, 43, 49, 61, Final suspense 135 153, 227, 228, 240, 259, 262, First player- -1 49, I54, 158, 178 263, 278, 306, 329, Five acts 192, 196 343. 359 Force Clavi^o--\2>A9y io7> HQ. 122, final suspense 135, 137 130, 233 irrational 98 Egmont-^\, 139, 240,308, tragic -- 95 316, 324 122, Formula 12, 13 Faust-- -57, 61, 116, Francis 267 189, 246, 263 Goetz von Franconian 275 B 40, 240, 308 Iphigenia 120 Frederick the Great 273 43.49. Natural Daughter French 28, 196,326, 329 324 Tasso 112, 118, Friedland - -- 204 43, 49, 197, 198, 199, 201 Goetz von Berlichingen, 40, Galotti --198, 307 240, 314

German Great poets compared, 1 10, 222 actor 317 Great strokes 134 hero 110,255,290, 291 Greeks^- -28, 42,43. 45. 47. life -- 254 54,70,74,75.81,86,88, method 265 90, 91, 92, 94, 98, lOI, poets. -1 10, 200, 226, 259, 102, 103, 113, 137, 144, 281, 328, 342, 343, 350, 149, 153, 158, 246, 279, 353. 356, 365 28u. 284, 289, 325, 33^^ stage --III, 116, 263,285, Greek acting -149, 152 308, 337, 363, 364 ^actors 75 Germanic drama-7, 81, 155, drama- --3, 7, 18, 45. 3o6, 181, 184, 193. 254, 334 334, 343 Germans 24, 25, 28, 41, costume 75 42,43,45,48,54,57.75. heroes- 102, 158, 290, 29i,.3i6_ INDEX. 373

subjects 143 classes unavailable for- tragedyrrmeon 40, '222, 64. 65 282,335, 336 double- — 128,305, 306 128 .development- 14 1, 142, 143 end of Gretchen 122, 123,226, German and Greek J290 227, 262, 278 Greek- 102, 158, 248 Ground mood 80 historical-— -273, 287-9, Gustavus Adolphus - 268 293-5» 347 single 304 talked about 317 Hades— JS3 Heroic accounts 71 Haemon--45, 152, 158, 170, 171 Hesse-- 267 Halle .....__-r----'269 Hexameter 326, 327, 342 Hamburgische Dramatur- Hindoos 54 gic 6 Heightened effects 79

Hamlet- - 1 18, 1 19, 186, 188, Hippolytus 116, 157 190, 191, 192, 258 Historic idea 37 analysis of 190, 191, Historian and poet - 16, 39, 192, 193 67, 266, 274, 349 Hamlet 48, 59. 123, 124, Historical material- 15, 37, 136, 165, 180, 186, 190-3, 41, 296, 336, 346, 347 218, 219, 220, 253, 314, heroes in 273,347, 3^4 273, 287, 288, 289, 293, Hohenstaufen 275, 337, 347 295, 347 Hohenzollern 70 Hapsburg-- 347 Holy One 292 Hebrews 54 Homer 284 Hecuba... 26, 116 Hovel scene 188 Helena -- 112 Hroswith 344 Hellenes 24, 192, 342 Humor 129 Henry IV -- 45 basis of 310 Henry IV 39. 293-5 in chief character 310 Hejiry V 26 Hyllos loi, 176 Henry VI 27 Henry VIII 273 Hercules 154, 176, I79. 181 Hero abasement oTTr-rrCT y'i lago 83, 121,253, 368 and audience 308 Iambic hexameter 326, 327 and color- -- 33^ Iambic pentameter - - -324, character 62 328, 329 English chief - -- 306 in German and 325 1

374 INDEX.

Iambus— Julius Caesar 59, 'j'j, 95, in Goethe 329 100, 121, 123, 135, 224, in Lessing 330 253, 254, 255, 265, 337 in Schiller 329 Justice on either side 105 Idea of drama 9, 1 K Idea of Wallenstein 205 Kolb Ideal figures 340 127 Katchen of Heilbronn 116 Idealization of history- -40, Keeping things silent 267, 296, 308 78 Iffland III Kennedy 118 119, 167 Iliad 290 Keynote 119 Kleist 280 Immermann 325 Kriemhild 280 Inheritance of poet 341 Intensification of soul 24 Kritz 10

Introduction- -1 14, 115,118, 123, 196 structure of 120 Lady Macbeth _- 135, 188 Invention 11 Laertes - -—^^.JJ^ Inventor as hero 68 Lai us - -^--^- - _-,=,^ - SIjJLZiiJT^ Involution 121 Language and color 339 Ion 112 and poet 338 Last suspense Ion 103 115 Latins 24, 114,250, 279 Iphigenia •-43, 49, 120 Laws, minor of characters 303 Iphigenia 45, 49, 50, 62, Lear.-rj, 103, 283 45, 129, 135, 136, Iphigenia in Aulis 62, 283 186, 187, 188,258, 311. Iphigenia in Tauris 112 Leicester 199,202, 212 Length of play Irrational forces 98 360, 361 Leipsic Ismene— 45, 48, 165, 170 364 Leonora 199, 200, 201

J Lessing-2, 6, 8, 43, 48, 84, Japanese 54 193, 198, 200, 201, 223, Jews 343 259, 260, 262, 306, 307, Jocasta loi, 153, 172 317, 365 Juliet-34, 35,36,95,99* ioo» Emilia Galotti--\<^, 107, 122, 126, 127, 135, 183, 120, 122, 130, 198, 200, 187,306,311, 314 201, 223, 254, 260, 262, lulius Ccesar 27, 80, 82, 306, 307, 317, 365 119, 120, 121, 126, 132, Hamburgische Drania-

153, 186, 244, 256 turgie ^ INDEX. 375

Minna Von Barnhclm Mary Stuart- - - 13, 99, 1 1 1, 49, 261 118, 119, 120, 122, 124, Nathan The lVise-.-/ig, 125, 132, 197, 199, 200, 118, 261 201, 202, 207, 208, 212, 348 Sara Sampson- 120, 260, 261 Mary Stuart- 95, 119 Lepidus 236 Material 14 Likation Pourers 173 from epic 43 Lichas 154 historical 15, 296,344-49 Limits of poet 51 modern 157 Laurence 33, 34, 35, 126, novel 43 127, 136. 313 old 344 Louise 10, 100, no, 128 onesidedness in 44

Love and Intrigue- - 13, 28, Max 204, 205, 206, 207, 43,76,100,107,127,264, 305 235, 237, 265, 271, 272, 306 Love scenes-226, 228, 22g, Medea 157 278, 288, 298 Melfort 260, 262 Lucius 82 Melchthal 198, 338 Luther 96,273, 348 Menas 236 Menelaus 62, 161, 1^7 M Mercha?it of Ve7iice 83 Mercutio 32 33, 48, 96, 126 Macbeth -27, 60, 77, 83, 118, Mephistopheles-57, 58, 122, 227 119, 186, 258, 276 Merovingians 286 Macbeth -59, 123, 127, 136, Messenger scenes-72, 116, 158, 186, 244 145, 170, 220 Macbeth, Lady 135, 188 Middle ages-285, 286, 292, Macdonald 216 293. 295, 343 Macduff 188, 244 Middle class life 113 Orleans Maid of — 49, 60, Milford 47, 128 107, 116, 241, 265 Minnavon Barnhelm--/^o, 261 Manager's help 365 Minna 259 Manuel 265 Minor rules 303 Margaret 229 Modern theater 342 Maria Theresa 348 Moliere 250 Marie 130 Moments or forces 196 Marinelli-120, 197, 198, 199, 201 Moment of last suspense. 115 Martha 227 Monologue 219, 220 Marvelous : 53 Moods unexpressed 70 Mary 120, 132, 197, 199, Moor 121 200, 202, 306 Moritz 267 , .-

376 INDEX.

Mortimer 122, 123, 197, Old material-- 350, 351

1 99, 200, 212 One hero 304 Motive, broad 82, no, 123 Opening scene 117 repeated 29, 42 Opera like effects 283 Movement of action 66 Ophelia 189 Murder scenes 132 Opposing characters 107 Mysteries on stage 58 Orange- 225 Oration scenes 133 N Orestes 42, 76, 152, 165, I73> 174 Narrative remodeled 30 Orsina 49, 201 Nathan The Wise-\% 118, 260 Othello, 14, 27, 83, 100, 107, Nathan 118 121, 122, 123, 130, 258 National custom 69 Othello-- 45, 130,310, 314 Nature and art 299, 300 Otto 285, 337 Natural Datighter 324 Neoptolemus-ioi, 158, 177, 178, 179, 180 Parallelisms in verse- ^2 Nessos loi in scenes 82 New persons 187 in German and Greek- -314 New roles 200 Paris. 34, 35,36, 76, 99,122 135 Nibehmgeii .- 279, 284, 290, 327 Parody, Greek- - Number of persons 216 -^ Parricida 49, 81, 202 Parts of drama 114 summary of 140 Octavianus 71 women's 184 Octavio--204, 206, 237, 238, 271 arrangements 210

Odoardo 201, 307 Pathos scene s, 132, 142, I4'>.

Odysseus-42, 103, 161, 162, 170, 174, 177, 178 165, 177, 178, 179, 180, Paulet TIF 181, 280 Pauses 214 Odyssey 281, 290 Penelope 280

Qi.di'piis at Coionos- - ^, 48^. People and poets 246 12, 160, Percy iJ 150, 156,

P^eripctcia . . lOI ^di^MS, King-- -107, 155, Persians 141 171..17-8 Personality of poet 17 CEdipus-.--7, 167, 168, 171, Personification 248 172,. 175 Persons in Greek drama- 42 Old Fritz 348 Phillip _-.- 34S' INDEX. 377

Philoctetes---\Q\, 112, 138, plan 351 153, 174, 178 resources 340 Philoctetcs---i64, 165, 167, stage 343, 362, 363

178, 179, 180 task . 31 Piccolojnini-.\\Z, 202, 205, tragedy- 86 206, 207, 236, 305 "work —341, 3447 35T^ Piccolomini 237, 238, 270 Poetic energy 253 Pilsen 203 truth 50 Play and counter play 114 Poetics, Aristotle's — 5, 6, 101 order of parts 169 Poetics, Greek. 247 Shakespeare's 182 Political history. 66 Sophocles' and Teutonic 155 Polydorus 116 spectacle in Polymnestor 26 symmetry of 182 Polynices 170, r time of acting-- 167, 360, 361 Pompey- H'T - ul-.j?^ 236 Player, first-- 149, 154, 158, 178 Posa 306 second 150, 154, 158, 178 Premises, monstrous of third-,- 150, 154, 180, 228, 229 ^Sophocles Players, number limited-- 234 Presuppositions 117 of Shakespeare's time-- 182 in Sophoole.?- - - 155, 168, Players and poets -300, 317, m Teutonic drama 159 3i9» 321, 355 Prince ofHombtirg, 38, 70, Plot of y^y^.r 176 112, 139, 324 Antig07te 170 Probability of action . 49 Electra III'l-- 172 Prolixity 359

_ CEdipus K^ing-^ - - — - - - 1 71 Prologue 115, 168 CEJipus at Colonos 174 Prometheus 57, 166

/ 'hiloctctes - 177 Properties 338 Trachhiian Women 176 Prose and drama 323, 328 and poet 351 Protagonist 154 Poet as actor and director 342 Public, influence of 309 and audience 354 Purification 87, 93 books 351 Pylades 76 character 86, 134 Pyramidal structure, 114, field 342 153, 218, 225 hero 350, 351 historian- -67, 266, 274, 347 limit — 51 Qualities of action 27 material 346, 347 Queen Mab 48 people 246 Questenberg, 118, 203, 207, 269 1

378 INDEX.

Romans 24, 28, 95, 279, Raumer — 275 289, 290, 308 Reaction, beginning of--- 99 Roman stage 195, 343 Romeo and Juliet- - Reaction in poet's mind-- 354 27, 30, Reading drama 344 76,82,99, 118, 122,123, Recognition scenes- --101, 124, 187,258,305, 311 145, 169 Romeo- --32, 33, 34, 36,95, Recha 259 100, 123, 124, 127, 135, Reflex action--- 74 136, 165, 182, 183, 187, Reformation 288 226, 306, 311, 316 Relief before catastrophe. 136 Romulus 338 Religious changes 292 Rosalind 32 Repetition of motive 82 Rudenz 200, 306 Return action 115, 133, Rules, craftsmen's 3 166, 177, 186, 187, 188, 200 minor 303 jRevolution loi, 145, 1 69 Riitli 198, 199 Riccault 49 Richard III. ---27,41, 118, 121, 122, 186, 229, 244, Sapieha 240

256, 276 Sa ra Sampson - - - 1 20, 260, 26

Richard III 59, 83, 136, Sara 259, 260

148, 186, 253, 304, 308, 316 Saxon . 347 Richmond 37 Scenes 210, 211 Rise of action 69, 115 balcony .-. 227 scenes of 128 changed relation 224 Rising movement- 125, 126 devices for 241 rules for 125 dialogue 221,223, 225 Roderigo 83, 121 director 212 Roles, celebrated 223 double 212 chief 306 ensemble 229-245 collective 162, 341 battle 244 distribution of-- 149, 156, 162 camp 244 great, limited 304 devices 241 kinds of 143 difficulties ---232,233, 241 length of 148 galley 235 not interchangeable 320 mass 242 number of 133 pageant 241 of Euripides 283 parliament 239, 240 of second half of play-- 316 populace 240, 241 subordinate 256 rules for -231, 232 .

INDEX. 379

Rutli -- 238, 239 100, ni, nS, ng, 120, signature 237 122, 124, 125, 130, 197, time of 234 199, 200, 201, 202, 204, five parts of 217 207, 208, 212, 348

in Mary Shiaj-t-- - 212 Piccolomini, 1 18, 202, 205, jumble in.- 217 206, 207, 236, 305 love --226-229, 278, 298 Robbers 263, 306 danger in 228 7>//---43, 46, 49, 81, 123, monologue 219 197, 199, 200, 201, 202, number of persons 216 228, 238 order of parts 213 lVallenstein---^o, 43, 46, parallel 82 72, 78, 107, n6, n9, poets' 212 120, 202, 2g6, 207, 208, pyramidal form 225 220, 223, 228, 308, 3n, 316 sequence of 133, 353 Camp 209 structure 210 Death 206, 217 technique 223 Scribe 341 third person in 228 Semiramis 337 Scenery 338 Sequence of scenes 133 shifting 215 Serious drama ni I Scenic contrasts 81 Sesina 206

Scythians .-_ 282 Shakespeare-- -7, 8, 25, 27, Schiller-2, 4, 8, 14, 17, 40, 29, 34, 40, 41, 43.45,46, 43, 46, 49, 60,61, 69,78, 48, 58, 59,62,69,71,81, 81, 107, no, 132, 195, 82, 83, 107, no, n3, 208, 220, 227, 236, 240, \i6, n8, n9, 120, 123, 242, 259, 262, 263, 265, 128, 181, 182, 183, 184, 268, 269, 271, 272, 298, 185, 186, 187, 189, 193, 306, 316, 324, 341, 348, 196, 200, 227, 228, 235, 354, 356, 360 237, 241, 244, 245, 252, Bride of Messina-- -22%, 242 255, 256, 258, 259, 273,

Demetrius --i\,i, 238, 239, 298, 306, 310, 314, 330, 240, 263 341, 349, 354, 356, 360 Do7i Carlos 43,46, 348 Anthojiy and Cleopatra Love and Intrigue--. 13, 41, 71, 189, 245, 306 28, 76, 100, 107, no, Coriolanus--2j, 130, 131, 127, 264, 305 135, 187, 258 Maid of Orleans -\c), 60, Hanilet n8, n9, 186, 107, n6, 241 188, 190, 191, 192, 193, 258

Ma7'y Stuart. -\T„ 43, 46, Henry IV.... --- 45 ,

38o INDEX.

Henry V. 26 no, 112, i:i32.-I4Q^ Hen?y VI. _ 27 [41, 146, 147. 148^149. Henry VIII. 273 50, 15 3, 2.55. Julius Ccesar-2'j, 80, 82, 119, 120, 126, 132, 186,

244, 256 Ajax-\\2, 153, 154, 156, Lear-2j, 45, 107, 129, 186, 158, 161, 162, 176, 177 188, 258, 311 Antigone- -.107, 137, I53,._ Macbeth- -I"], jj, 83, 118, iift>„155^Ji8^J7o^3n 119, 186, 258, 276 Electra 1^4^77671527172' Venice Merchant of 83 (Edipits at Colonos- 7, Othello ---\\, 27, 83, 100, 48, 112, 156, 160, 167, 174 107, 121, 122, 123, 130, 258 QLdipus, King--\oi, 107, Richa7-d 111.-2'], \\, 118, 155, 171. 178 121, 122, 186, 229, 244, Philoctetes-ioi, 112, 133, 256, 276 153. ^77, 178

Romeo and Juliet-21, yi, Trach in ian Women - 1 o i

76, 82, 99, 118, 122, 126, 153. .154, 176 133, 187,258,305, 311 episodes in 47 Timon of A the7is 62 Soul processes 39, 104 Shakespeare's Spanish 29, 222 actors -- 184 Speech and reply 222, 229 audiences 183 Spectacle play iii ardor for heroes 187 on modern stage 112 change of scenes 185 tragedyand 113 characters 2^ Spectator and dramatist- - 32 characteristics 186 Spirits not dramatic 56 drama 189 in comedy 57 heroes and action--- 185, in Shakespeare 58 252, 258 Stauffacher 197,238, 239 method -185, 189, 258 Stenzel 275 spirits 58 Stimulation 97 stage 181 Structure of drama io4i| technique 184-193 of scenes 210" times 184-194 Struggle, tragic 85 Shylock 50, 253 of Greek hero 159 Society of Dramatic Auth- of Teutonic hero 159 ors 364 Superhuman-- 55 SftphoxOfes- -7, 8, 25, 42, 43, Supernatural 55 47, 75, 81, 91, 92, 98, Suppliants 42, 141 INDEX. 381

Suspense final 133 influence of 87 force of 135, 137 kind of second iii

Swedes 204, 206,221, 311 Tragic, what is 7, 84 Swiss 197, 198, 199, 201, 306 aggregate effect 94 causal connection 97 force or moment-95, in, Tableaux 317 115. 130, 131. 132 Tasso.. i2,i9> 113. 118, 197, sjn G reejj;- ,dja.ma 100 198, 199, 201, 359 in real life Tasso 197,201,202, 314 narrower sense 94 Tecmessa 45, 162, 177 place of 100 Technique 4, 8 scene of 99

not absolute i two meanings 86 not enough 322 Trilogy 147, 157, 173 of versification 329 Tristan 285 7>// 43, 49, 80, 197, 199, Trochaic tetrameter 325 200, 201, 202, 228, 238 Two arrangements 105 Tell 197, 198,201, Two heroes 128

265, 306 Tybalt--33, 34, 76, 98, 99. Tellheim 260, 262 126, 127, 136 Tcmpler 260 Terzky 228,237, 273 U Testing 359 Unit, logical 213 Tcucros 162, 153, 177 Unity of action 9,27, 36 Teutonic 91,94,226, 254 place 29 Theatre, modern 342 time 29 Thebes 103, 171, 175 false -- Unity, -I- 38 TheinarT2057^o5r22Tr228, 265" Unusual, the--, 54 Theseus 158, 165, 175 Urians - -_ 238 Thoas _" 50 Time of action 360 Timon of A tJicns 62

Tiresias 152, 158, 171 Verona - 30 Tone color 328 Verse and color 323

- Trachinia7i Women- 1 53, and drama 324 154, 176 dramatic recital 330 Tragedy--- 81, 87 Vienna 364 Athenian 140 Virgin Mary 56, 60, 61 double -,- 202 Voices distributed 244

Greek 222, 282 Volscians ']6, 185 382 INDEX.

W Walter FiJrst 195

IVallenstem-^o, 43, 72, 78, Weislingen 262 107, 116, 119, 120, 165, Will and deed i8g 202, 206, 207, 220, 223, Witches in Macbeth --.60, 188 228,308,311, 316 Women's parts 184 Camp 209 Work, poet and his- 341 not Death 206, 207 easy .__ 344 five acts of 203 Worms. 267 Wallenstein -16, 17, 40, 45, Wrangel-204, 206, 207,223, 203, 204, 205, 206, 207, 269,272,311, 314 220, 265, 268, 269, 270, Wuoton 292 271,272,306, 316 Wurm 127 NOTES.

Note i, page i8.— Even Aristotle comprehended most thoroughly this first part of the poet's work, the fashioning and developing of the poetic idea. If, in comparison v^ath history, he makes poetry the more significant and philosophical, because poetry represents what is common to all men, while history gives an account of the incidental, or special detail ; and because history presents what has happened, while poetry shows how it could have happened,— yet we moderns, impressed with the weight and grandeur of historical ideas, must reject his comparative estimate of the two fundamentally different kinds of composition ; we shall, however, concede the fine distinction in his definition. He indicates, in a sentence immediately following this and often misunderstood, " the process of idealization. He says, IX., 4 : That which in poetry is common to humanity, is produced in this w^ay,— the speeches and actions of the characters are made to appear probable and necessary ; and that which is humanly universal poetry works out from the raw material and then gives to the characters appropriate names,"— whether using those already at hand in the raw material or inventing new ones. (Buckley's translation is as follows : But universal consists indeed in relating or performing certain things which happen to a man of a certain description, either probably or necessarily, to which the aim of poetry is directed in giving names.) Aris- totle was of the opinion, too, that a poet would do well at the beginning of his work to place before himself the material which had attracted him, in a formula stripped of all inciden-

tals, or non-essentials ; and he develops this idea more fully in another place, XVII., 6,7: " The Iphigenia and the Orestes of the drama are not at all the same as those in the material which came to the poet. For the poet who composed the play

383 384 NOTES.

it is almost an accident that they bear these names. Only when the poet has raised his actions and his characters above the incidental, the real, that which has actually happened, and in place of this has put a meaning, a significance which will be generally received, which appears to us probable and necessary, — only then is he again to make use of color and tone, names

and circumstances, from the raw material." Therefore it is also possible that dramas which have been taken from very different realms of material, express, fundamentally, the same

meaning, or, as we put it, represent the same poetical idea. This is the thought in the passages cited.

Note 2, page 22.— The few technical terms used in this book must be received by the reader without prejudice and without confusion. In their common use for the last century several of them have passed through many changes of meaning. What is here called ac tion, the material already arranged ioLrLih£Ldraina.j;in Aristotle, myth; in the Latin writers, fable),

Lessing sometimes still calls fable, while the raw material, the praxis or the pragma of Aristotle^e calls action. But Lessing also sometimes uses the word action more correctly, giving it

the meaning which it has here.

Note 3, page 28.—As is well known, unity of place is not

demanded by Aristotle ; and concerning the uninterrupted continuity of time he says only that tragedy should try as far as possible to limit its action to one course of the sun. Among the Greeks, as may be shown, it was only Sophocles and his school who, in the practice of their art, adhered to what we call the unity of place and of time. And with good reason. The rapid, condensed action of Sophocles, with its regular structure, needed so very short a part of the story or tradition that

the events underlying it could frequently occur in the same brief space of a few hours which the representation on the stage required. If Sophocles avoided such a change of scene, as, for example, occurs in ^Esehylus's Eumenides, he had a peculiar reason. We know that he thought much of scenic a more artistic decoration of decoration ; he had introduced the background; and for his theatrical day he positively needed for the four pieces four great curtains, which with the gigantic proportions of the scene at the Acropolis occasioned NOTES. 385

an immense outlay. A change of the entire background during

the representation was not allowable ; and the mere transposi- tion of the periakte, if these had been introduced at all in the time of Sophocles, would be to the taste of an ancient stage director as imperfect an arrangement as the change of side curtains, without the change of background, would be to us. It may not be so well known that Shakespeare, who treats time and space with so much freedom, because the fixed architecture

of his stage spared him from indicating, or made it easy for him to indicate the change of scenes, presented his pieces on a stage which was the unornamented successor of the Attic pros- ,cenium. This proscenium had been gradually transformed by slight changes into the Roman theater, the mystery-platform of the middle ages, and the scaffold of Hans Sachs. On the other hand, the same classical period of the French theater, which so rigidly and anxiously sought to revive the Greek traditions, has bequeathed us the deep, camera-like structure of our stage, which had its origin in the needs of the ballet and the opera.

Note 4, page 31.—The details of the novel, and what

Shakespeare changed in it, may be here passed over.

Note 5, page 46. — It is a poor expedient of our stage directors to neutralize or render harmless the weakest of these groups, the Attinghausen family, by cutting their roles as much as possible, and then depreciating them still more by committing them to weak actors. The injury is by this means all the more striking. This play of Schiller's should either be so presented as to produce most completely the effects intended by the author, in which case the three barren roles, Freiherr, Rudenz, Bertha, must be endowed with sufficient force,— our actors can thus express their gratitude to the poet who has done so much for them ; or else, the Tell action only should be presented as it may be most easily made effective on our stage, and the three roles should be entirely stricken out,—a thing that is possible with very slight changes.

Note 6, page 47.— Even in the time of the Greeks the word, episode, had a little history. In the earliest period of the drama it denoted the transition from one choral song to the 386 NOTES. following: then, after the introduction of actors, first, the short speeches, messenger-scenes, dialogues, and so forth, which comprised the transitions and motives for the new moods of the chorus. After the extension of these recited parts the word remained, in the developed drama, as an old designation of any part of the drama which stood between two choral songs. In this meaning it nearly corresponds to our act, or more accurately, to our elaborated scene. In the workshop of the Greek poet it became a designation of that part of the action which the poet with free invention inserted as a richer furnishing, as a means of animating his old mythological material; for instance, in Antigone, that scene between Anti- gone, Ismene, and Creon,in which the innocent Ismene declares herself an accomplice of her sister. In this signification, an episode might fill the entire interval between two choral songs; but as a rule it was shorter. Its places were generally in the rising action, only occasionally in the return action — our second, and fourth act. Because with this meaning it denoted little portions of the action, which might indeed have originated in the most vital necessities of the drama, but which were not indispensable for the connection of the events ; and because since Euripides, poets have sought more and more frequently for effect-scenes which stood in very loose connection with the idea and the action,— there came to be attached to the word this secondary meaning of an unmotived and arbitrary insertion. In The Poetics the word is used in all of the three meanings : in XII., 5, it is a stage-manager's term ; in

XVII., 8-10, it is a technical expression of the poet; in X., 3, it has its secondary significance.

Note 7, page 72.— The structure of the drama is disturbed by this irregularity in the ordering of the action, which appears like a relapse into the old customs of the English popular theater. The action offered in the material and the idea was as follows : Act I. Antony at Cleopatra's, and his separation from her. Act II. Reconciliation with Caesar, and restoration to power. Act III. Return to the Egyptian woman, with climax. Act IV. Sacrifice of principle, flight, and last struggle. Act V. Catastrophe of Antony and of Cleopatra. But the deviation of Shakespeare's play from the regular structure is NOTES. 387

for a more profound reason. The inner life of the debauched Antony possessed no great wealth, and in its new infatuation offered the poet little that was attractive. But his darling dramatic figure, Cleopatra, in the development of which he had evinced his consummate, masterly art, was not a character adapted to great dramatic emotion and excitement ; the various scenes in which she appears full of passionate demeanor without passion, resemble brilliant variations of the same theme. In her relations with Antony she is portrayed just often enough and from the most diverse points of view to present a rich picture of the vixenish coquette. The return of Antony gave the poet no new task with respect to her. On the other hand, the exaltation of this character in a desperate situation, under the fear of death, was a fascinating subject for him, and to a certain extent rightly so ; for herein was an opportunity for a most peculiar, gradual intensification. Shakespeare, then, sacrificed to these scenes a part of the action. He threw together the climax and the return action, indicating them in little scenes, and accorded to the catastrophe two acts. For the aggregate effect of the play, this is a disadvantage. We are indebted to him, however, for the scene of Cleopatra's death in the monument,— of all that is extraordinary in Shakespeare, perhaps the most astonishing. That the accessory persons, Octavianus and his sister, just at the summit of the action, were more important to the poet than his chief person, is perhaps due to the fact that to the poet in advanced life, any single person with his joy and his sorrow must seem small and insignificant, while the poet was contemplating, prophetically and reverentially, the historical and established order of things.

Note 8, page 83.—The scene is, however, by no means to be omitted,— as indeed happens. Moreover, an abbreviation must make prominent the contrast with the first, the imperial hardness of the tyrant, the lurking hostility of the mother, and Richard's deception by a woman whom he despises. If our stage directors would not endure more, they might tolerate the following: Of the lines in the passage beginning.

Stay, madam, I must speak a word with you, and extending to the end of the scene, to Richard's words,

Bear her my true-love's kiss; and so farewell, 388 NOTES.

numbered consecutively from 198 to 436, Globe -Edition, the

following lines might remain: 198-201 ; 203-206; 251-256; 257; 293-298; 300; 301; 310, 311; 320-325; 328; 330; 340-357; 407- 418; 420; 422-424; 433-436.

Note 9, page loi.— Both of these expressions of the craft are still occasionally misunderstood. Peripeteia does not always denote the last part of the action from the climax downward,

which in Aristotle is called Katabasis; but it is only what is here called "tragic force,"— a single scene-eflfect, sometimes only a part of a scene. The chapter on the Anagnorisis, how-

ever, one of the most instructive in the Poetics, because it affords a glimpse into the craftsman's method of poetic work, once appeared to the publishers as not authentic.

Note 10, page 147.— That the choruses did not, as a rule, rush in and off again, but claimed a good share of the time, may be inferred from the fact that in Sophocles sometimes a brief chorus fills up the time which the player needs to go behind the scenes to change his costume, or to pass from his door to the side-entrance, through which he must enter in a new role. Thirteen lines and two strophes of a little chorus suffice for the deuteragonist whose exit, as Jocasta, has been made through the back-door, to change costume and reappear upon the stage as shepherd from the field side. Upon the stage of the Acropolis this was no little distance.

Note ii, page 147.— That a favorite order of presentation was from the gloomy, the horrible, to the brighter and more cheerful, we may infer from the circumstance that Antigone and Electra were first pieces of the day. This is known from Antigone not only by the first choral-song, the first beautiful ^strophe of which is a morning song, but also from the character of the action which gives to the great role of the pathos actor only the first half of the piece, and thus lays the center of gravity toward the beginning. In the most beautiful poem

it would not have been advisable to entrust to the so-little- esteemed third actor (who, nevertheless, is sometimes shown a preference by Sophocles) the closing effects of the last piece, so important in securing the decision of the judges. In the prologue of Electra, also, the rising sun and the festal Bacchic NOTES. 389 costume are mentioned. The beautiful, broadly elaborated situation in the prologue of King CEdipus and the structure of Ajax, the center of gravity of which lies in the first half, and which distinctly reveals the early morning, seem to point to these as first pieces. The Trachinian Women probably entered the contest as a middle piece ; CEdipus at Colonos, with its magnificent conclusion, and Philoctetes with its splendid pathos role and reconciling conclusion, as closing pieces. The conjectures which are based upon the technical character of the pieces, have at least more probability than conjectures which are drawn from a comparison or collation of dramas which have been preserved, with such as have not been.

Note 12, page 148.— Six pieces of Sophocles contain an average of about 1,118 verses, exclusive of the speeches and songs of the chorus. Only CEdipus at Colonos is longer. If, again, the number of verses of each of the three players is on the average about equal, the tragedies of a day, together with a burlesque of the length of The Cyclops (about 500 verses for three players) would give to each player a total of about 1,300 verses. But the task of the first player was already, on account of the affecting pathos scenes and on account of the songs, disproportionately greater. Besides, much more must be expected from him. If in the three pieces of Sophocles in which the hero suffers from a disease inflicted by the gods (Ajax, The Trachinian Women, Philoctetes) the parts of the first player are summed up, (Ajax, Teucros, Heracles, Lichas, Philoc- tetes) there will be about 1,440 verses ; and with the burlesque, there will be about 1,600 verses : and there is the effort required to carry through six roles and sing about six songs.

There is no doubt that, in the composition of his tetralogies, Sophocles gave attention to the pauses for rest for his three players. Each last tragedy demanded the most powerful effort; and it must also, as a rule, have demanded most from the first actor. That The Trachinian Women was not a third piece may be inferred from the fact that in it the second actor had the chief role.

Note 13, page 153.— In the extant plays of Sophocles, the assignment of roles among the three actors is as follows, Pro- —

390 NOTES. tagonist, Deuteragonist, Tritagonist, being indicated by the numbers i, 2, 3, respectively:

King CEdipus: i, (Edipus. 2, Priest, Jocasta, Shepherd,

Messenger of the catastrophe. 3, Creon, Tiresias, Messenger. CEdipus at Colonos: i, QEdipiis, Messenger of the catastrophe. 2, Antigone, ^Theseus (in the climax scene). 3, Colonians, Ismene, Theseus (in the other scenes), Creon, Polynices.

Antigone: i, Antigone, Tiresias, Messenger of the catastrophe. 2, Ismene, Watchman, Hsemon, *Eurydice, Servant.

3, Creon.

The Trachinian Women: i, *Maid-servant, Lichas, Hera- cles. 2, Deianeira, Nurse (as messenger of the catastrophe), Old man. 3, Hyllos, Messenger.

I, Ajax: Ajax, Teucros. 2, Odysseus, Tecmessa. 3, Athene, Messenger, Menelaus, Agamemnon.

Philoctetes: i, Philoctetes, 2, Neoptolemos. 3, Odysseus, Merchant, Heracles.

Electra: i, Electra. 2, Warden, Chrysothemis, iEgisthos.

3, Orestes, Clytemnestra. The roles marked * are uncertain. Besides the three actors, the Attic stage always had several accessory players for dumb-show roles : thus in Electra, Pylades ; in The Trachin- ian Women, the especially distinguished role of lole in which perhaps Sophocles would present to the public a young actor whom he esteemed. It is probable that these accessory players sometimes relieved the actors of less important subordinate roles,— for example, in Antigone, Eurydice, which is treated very briefly ; and in The Trachinian Women, the maid-servant of the prologue. How else could they test their voices and their powers? Such aid as was rendered by characters disguised from the audience by masks, was not reckoned playing.

The accessory actors were also needed ;is representatives of the three players upon the stage, if the presence of a mask was desirable in a scene, and the player of this scene must at the same time assume another role ; then the accessory player figured in like costume and the required mask, as a rule without saying any lines ; but sometimes single lines must be given him. Thus Ismene, in the second half of CEdipus at Colonos, is represented by an accessory player, while the player himself ;

NOTES. 391

represents Theseus and Polynices. This piece has the peculiar-

ity that at least at the climax, one scene of Theseus is presented by the second actor, the player of Antigone, while the remaining scenes of this role are presented by the third actor. If the player had practiced the voice, and so forth, this substi-

tution for a single scene did not offer special difficulty. It is possible, however, that the player of the role of Antigone, also gave the first Theseus scene. Antigone has gone into the grove

in the background, in order to watch her father ; she may very conveniently appear again as Theseus, while a stage-walker goes up and down in her mask. If even in this play, a fourth actor had taken part, in any role of importance, some account would have come to us of what even at that time would have been a striking innovation.

Note 14, page 155.— Upon our stage every play has one first hero, but more chief roles ; not frequently is one of these more ample and of deeper interest than that of the first hero, as, for example, the role of Falstaff in Henry IV.

Note 15, page 156.—The presuppositions of The Trachin- ian Women are, so far as Deianeira is concerned, very simple but Heracles is the first hero, and his preparation for being received among the gods was the master-stroke of the play.

Note 16, page 156.— It is impossible just in Sophocles, from the extant names of lost plays and from scattered verses, to come to any conclusion as to the contents of the plays. What one might think from the tradition to be the contents of the play, could often prove to be only the contents of the prologue.

Note 17, page 178.— Prologue: Neoptolemos, Odysseus. Chorus and Neoptolemos in Antiphone —

'' I. Messenger scene with recognition, Ascent Philoctetes, Neoptolemos.

of ^ 2. Messenger scene, The same, and Merchant.

Action, 3. Recognition scene (of the bow), I Philoctetes, Neoptolemos. 1^ Choral song —

Climax, i. Double pathos scene, Philoctetes, Neoptolemos.

Tragic Force, 2. Dialogue scene, The same, Odysseus. ; :

392 NOTES.

Chorus and Philoctetes in Antiphone —

1. Dialogue scene, Neoptolemos, Odysseus.

2. Dialogue scene, Philoctetes, Neoptolemos; Falling Action afterward Odysseus. and 3. Announcement and conclusion, Catastrophe, Philoctetes, Neoptolemos, Heracles.

" Note 18, page 183.— The balcony scene" belongs, on our

stage, at the end of the first act, not in the second ; but this

makes the first act disproportionately long. It is a disadvantage that our (German) division of plays often makes a break in the action where a rapid movement is demanded, or only a

very short interruption is allowed.

Note 19, page 208.— Let this structure be represented by means of lines. (See page 115.)

1. A DRAMA, such as did not lie in Schiller's plan. Idea: A perfidious general endeavors to make the army desert its

commander, but is deserted by his soldiers and put to death.

a. Exciting force : inciting to treason.

b. Rising action : certain stipulations with the enemy.

c. Climax : apparent success ; the subtly sought signature of the generals.

d. Return action : the conscience of the army is awakened.

e. Catastrophe : death of the general.

2. ScHiLLER^s Wallenstein without The Piccolomini. Idea Through excessive power, intrigues of opponents, and his

own proud heart, a general is betrayed into treason ; he seeks to make the army desert its commander, etc.

In this a, b, c, rising action to climax inner struggles and temptations.

a. Questenberg in camp, and separation from emperor. "h

b. Testing the generals; banquet scene.

c. Climax : the first act of treason ; for example, the treating with Wrangel. cd. Attempts to mislead the army. is d. Return action : the conscience of the soldiers awakened.

e. Catastrophe: death of Wallenstein. NOTES. 393

3. The Double Dramas. A. The Piccolomini, indicated by the dotted lines. B. Wallenstein's Death, indicated by plain lines, aa. The two exciting

forces, a', the generals and Questen- berg, for the com-

bined action ; a-, Max's and Thekla's arrival for The Pic- colomini. cc. The two climaxes,

c, release of Max from Octavio, at (Z the same time, catastrophe of The

Piccolomini; c^, Wallenstein and Wrangel, at the same time the exciting force of Wallenstein's Death.

ee. The two concluding catastrophes, e', of the lovers, and

e^, of Wallenstein. Further, b, the love scene between

Max and Thekla is the climax of The Piccolomini; f and g are the scenes interwoven from Wallenstein's Death: audience of Questenberg, and banquet, the second and fourth acts of The Piccolomini; h, d, and e' are scenes interwoven from The Piccolomini and Wallenstein's Death: Octavio's intrigue, the departure of Max, the announcement of his death, together with Thekla's flight,— the second, third, and fourth acts, d, is the scene of the cuirassiers, at the same time the climax of the second drama.

Note 20, page 212.— In printing our plays, it frequently happens that within acts, only those scenes are set off and numbered which demand a shifting of scenery. The correct method, however, would be to count and number the scenes within an act according to their order of succession ; and where a change of scenery is necessary, and must be indicated, add to the current scene number the word "change," and indicate the character of the new stage setting. - :

394 NOTES.

Note 21, page 237.—The act is in two parts. The first preparatory part contains three short dramatic . components the entrance of Max, the submitting of the forged documents by the intriguers, Buttler's connection with them. At this point the great conclusion begins, introduced by the conversation of the servants. The carousing generals must not be seen during the entire act in the middle and back ground : the stage presents to better advantage an ante-room of the banquet hall, separated from this by pillars and a rear wall, so that the company, previous to its entrance at the close, is seen only indistinctly and only an occasional convenient call and movement of groups are noticed. In Wallenstein, Schiller was still a careless stage director; but from the date of that play he became more careful in stage arrangement. Among the peculiarities of clear portrayal in this scene, belongs the unfeeling degradation of Max. It is wonderfully repeated by Kleist in The Prince of Hamburg. Shakespeare does not characterize dreamers by their silence, but by their distracted and yet profound speeches.

Note 22, page 308.— Of course Emilia Galotti must be represented in the costume of the time, 1772. The piece demands another consideration in acting. From the third act, the curtain must not be dropped for pauses between acts; and these should be very short.

Note 23, page 361.—Twenty of our great dramas have the

following lengths in verses :

Don Carlos 5,471 Othello - 3.133 Maria Stuart 3,927 Coriolanus - 3,124 Wallenstein's Death - 3,865 Romeo and Juliet - 2,975 Nathan the Wise - 3,847 Bride of Messina - 2,84s Hamlet - 3,715 The Piccolomini 2,665 Richard HI 3,603 Merchant of Venice 2,60c Torquato Tasso 3,453 Julius C^sar - 2,59c Maid of Orleans - 3,394 Iphigenia 2,174 William Tell - 3,286 Macbeth - 2,11^ King Lear - 3,255 Prince of Homburg 1,854

These figures do not pretend to absolute correctness, since the incomplete verses are to be deducted; and the prose pas-

sages, in which Shakespeare is especially rich, admit of only a —

NOTES. 395 rough estimate. The prose plays, Emilia Galotti, Clavigo, Egmont, Love and Intrigue, correspond more nearly to the length of the plays of our own time. Of the dramas in verse, enumerated above, only the last three can be presented entire, without that abbreviation which is necessary on other grounds. It would require six hours to play all of Don Carlos, which in length exceeds all bounds. Since Wallenstein's Camp— together with the lyric lines has 1,105 rapid verses, the three parts of the dramatic poem,

Wallenstein, contain 7,639 verses ; and their representation on the stage, the same day, would require r,bout the same time as the Oberammergau Passion Play. No single chief role is so comprehensive that it would place an excessive burden upon an actor to carry it through in a single day. « ri f 1 1% O O K

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